Prison is not a mere physical horror. It is using a pickaxe to no purpose that makes a prison.

Vain is the hope of finding pleasure in that which one has hitherto disdained; as when the warrior hopes to find pleasure in the joys of the sedentaries.

Horror causes men to clench their fists, and in horror men join together.

Only he can understand what a farm is, what a country is, who shall have sacrificed part of himself to his farm or country, fought to save it, struggled to make it beautiful. Only then will the love of farm or country fill his heart.

Language is the source of misunderstandings.

A child is not frightened at the thought of being patiently transmuted into an old man.

Mad is the man who is forever gritting his teeth against that granite block, complete and changeless, of the past.