Strideth over all mountains, and laugheth at all tragedies
Tragedy is dead! Poetry itself died with it! Away, away with you, puny, stunted imitators! Away with you to Hades, and eat your fill of the old masters' crumbs!
Is not wounded vanity the mother of all tragedies?
Our sense of the tragic waxes and wanes with our sensuality.
The most spiritual human beings, assuming they are the most courageous, also experience by far the most painful tragedies: but it is precisely for this reason that they honor life, because it brings against them its most formidable weapons.