On the day when man told the story of his life to man, history was born.

Silence alone is great; all else is feebleness . . . Perform with all your heart your long and heavy task. . . . Then as do I, say naught, but suffer and die.

Poetry is the disease of the brain.

I think, then, that man, after having satisfied his first longing for facts, wanted something fuller - some grouping, some adaptation to his capacity and experience, of the links of this vast chain of events which his sight could not take in.

History is a novel for which the people is the author.

Only silence is great; all else is weakness.

What is a great life if not a youthful idea executed by a man of mature years.