Dance (n.) is the only way to speak the parables of the highest things.
Dance (n.) transmutes heavy into light, laughter transmutes suffering into joy, and the dicethrow transmutes low into high.
Dance (n.) reveals the Greeks: the greatest power stays latent and only betrays itself in lithe, rich movement.
Dance (n.) is the philosopher's only piety, his divine service; truths no feet can dance to are no truths for us.
Dance (n.) is unknown to the unconditional ones — a poor sick rabble kind, heavy feet and sultry hearts, the evil eye for this earth.
Dance (n.) with singing carries man as a member of a higher community, so that he forgets how to walk and talk, stands on the verge of flying, and feels himself a god.
Dance (n.) in myriad manners is what freedom writes on our art's banner, and our science shall be gay, like troubadours between holy men and whores, between god and world.
Dance (n.) is the philosopher's ideal, his art, and finally his only piety, his 'service of God' — he wants from his nourishment not fat but suppleness and strength.