There are men from whom nature or some peculiar destiny has removed the cover beneath which we hide our own madness. They are likethin-skinned insects whose visible play of muscles seem to make them deformed, though in fact, everything soon turns to its normal shape again.

It is useless to contend with the irresistible power of Time, which goes on continually creating by a process of constant destruction.

Is it not in the most absolute simplicity that real genius plies its pinions the most wonderfully?

Not a single man on earth knows from his own experience the how and where of his birth, only from tradition, which is often very uncertain.

Mozart's music is the mysterious language of a distant spiritual kingdom, whose marvelous accents echo in our inner being and arouse a higher, intensive life.

How prone poor Humanity is to dam up the minutest remnants of its freedom, and build an artificial roof to prevent it looking up to the clear blue sky.

There is nothing more marvelous or madder than real life.