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Youth, Goethe said, is the silky apple butter on the good brown bread of possibility.

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Food, said Goethe, is the topmost taper on the golden candelabrum of existence.

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Music, Goethe said, is the frozen tapioca in the ice chest of History.

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Art, Goethe said, is the four-percent interest on the municipal bond of life.
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Critics, Goethe said, are the cracked mirror in the grand ballroom of the creative spirit.
No, I said, they were, rather, the extra baggage on the great cabriolet of conceptual progress.

Eckermann, said Goethe, shut up.

Donald Barthelme
in “Conversations with Goethe”