The born aristocrats of the mind are not in too much of a hurry; their creations appear and fall from the tree on some quiet autumn evening, without being rashly desired, instigated, or pushed aside by new matter. The unceasing desire to create is vulgar, and betrays envy, jealousy, and ambition. If a man is something, it isn’t necessary for him to do anything−and yet he does a great deal. And still there is a human species higher than the “productive” man.
Human, All Too Human