*

As long as I had Walpurga with me in the palace, I could speak to her
freely on various subjects. When I came to her, it was a change, a
stepping out of the sphere in which my thoughts were accustomed to
move. But here, where I have her and nothing else, it is different. It
is not pride--for what have I to do with pride? Is it alienation, or is
it sullen listlessness?

*

_Naivete_ pleases us only for a short time. Wisdom always remains
attractive--such wisdom as mother Beate's or Gunther's. Yes, I long for
him most of all.

Wisdom is cultured _naivete_ or, to speak more correctly, the _naivete_
of genius. It is the rosy apple; _naivete_ the blossom from which it
sprang, still dwells in the fruit, as its core.

Night and day, the various elemental influences, clear perception and
the mysterious forces of nature:--all these help to perfect the finest
fruit.

*

I cannot look upon work as the noblest thing in life. The perfect man
is he who does nothing, who cherishes himself--; such is the life of
the gods, and what is man but the god of creation?

My heresy thus expresses itself. I have confessed and repented of it.
But in the confessor's chair sits one who is in the right when he says:
"Very well, my child! And so the noblest and most exalted life is
simply existence, void of effort. But, since no one can live unless
some other being labors for him, it follows that all must do something.
Nothing can be had without pay. The one class has not been sent into
the world merely to exist, nor the other merely to labor."

*

How happy I might become if there were no past. A life hereafter,
filled with memories--how sad the thought! And yet without memories,
would it be a second life?

*

True joy at last dwells with us. Whenever we partake of anything,
Walpurga always says: "We planted this ourselves; on such a day, we set
our beans. I put them in Burgei's hand, and she dropped them on the
garden beds."

And thus it seems to be with all things. The past is being renewed to
us.

*

I have found it difficult to go over the same task, again and again.
But the constant repetition is what constitutes labor. Without that, it
is mere amusement.

Nature constantly repeats herself, and we must serve her by imitatin