The Miller Believes That All The Wheat

True Works Of Art Contain Their Own Theory And Give Us The Measurement According To Which We Should Judge Them.

To Be Pleased With One's Limits Is A Wretched State.

Age Childish Makes, They Say, But 'tis Not True; We're Only Genuine Children Still In Age's Season. [ger., Das Alter Macht Nicht Kindisch, Wie Man Spricht, Es Findet Uns Nur Noch Als Wahre Kinder.]

The March Of Intellect, Which Licks All The World Into Shape, Has Even Reached The Devil.

To Create Something You Must Be Something.