It is not that the poet thinks ceaselessly of all the things in the world; they think of him. They are in him, they dominate him. Even his arid hours, his depressions, his dismay are impersonal moods; they correspond to the jags on a seismograph, and a profound enough gaze could read in them secrets still more mysterious than the poems themselves.
— Hofmannnsthal
Notes from a Room 