There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.

Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.

I fashion the expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in accordance with the expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression.

If in many of my productions terror has been the thesis, I maintain that terror is not of Germany, but of the soul.

To speak algebraically, Mr. M. is execrable, but Mr. G. is (x + 1)- ecrable.

Who cares how time advances? I am drinking ale today.

I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as the Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is taste. With the intellect or with the conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with duty or with truth.