A Work of art (n.) goes cold and dead when its single parts lack a life of their own.
A Work of art (n.) that is truly made leaves the spectator nothing to add — he need only receive, because the artist has given everything already.
A Work of art (n.) is a whole world perfect in itself, cut out of the actuality that trails along endlessly in dependent causes and consequences.
A Work of art (n.) in its ideal form confronts us like a blessed god, for whom there is no final seriousness in distress, anger or finite aims.
Work of art (n.) reveals a free inner necessity that exists only to show itself, and because it manifests freedom we feel free and enraptured contemplating it.
A Work of art (n.) has no aim beyond itself: aim and achievement close together in it, an end that in being accomplished directly meets itself.
A Work of art (n.) that lacks the right form is no true work of art; it is a bad excuse for an artist to say his content is excellent but the form is lacking.
A Work of art (n.) must rest in itself and turn to the onlooker in perfect balance: shut in on itself it leaves us cold; going too far out to us, it pleases without solidity.