Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.
What might be taken for a precocious genius is the genius of childhood. When the child grows up, it disappears without a trace. It may happen that this boy will become a real painter some day, or even a great painter. But then he will have to begin everything again, from zero.
Theirs, too, is the word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping.
The true genius shudders at incompleteness, imperfection, and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not everything that should be said.