I believe that the existence of the classical "path" can be pregnantly formulated as follows: The "path" comes into existence only when we observe it.
The historian records, but the novelist creates.
Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its highest. Live in fragments no longer
History develops, art stands still.
Love and understand the Italians, for the people are more marvellous than the land.
When I think of what life is, and how seldom love is answered by love; it is one of the moments for which the world was made.
To make us feel small in the right way is a function of art; men can only make us feel small in the wrong way.
Beethoven and Wagner for many years wrung our hearts. But now we are sated with them and derive much greater pleasure from ideally combining the noise of streetcars, internal-combustion engines, automobiles, and bust crowds than from rehearsing, for example, the 'Eroica' or the 'Pastorale'. . . away! les ust be gone, since we shall not much longer succeed in restraining a desire to create a new musical realism by a generous distribution of sonorous blows and slaps, leaping numbly over violins, pianofortes, contrabasses, and groaning organs, Away!
Virtue tested: "Have I not survived hunger and thirst, suffering, and mockery for the sake of the truth which heaven has awakened in my heart?
I played saxophone and trumpet. Pretty nerdy.
Some persons have contended that mathematics ought to be taught by making the illustrations obvious to the senses. Nothing can be more absurd or injurious: it ought to be our never-ceasing effort to make people think, not feel.