In Germany, a certain artistic sense is fairly common, but the artist's sense is foreign there.

A woman's passion is not the measure of a man's love.

When the theater gates open, a mob pours inside, and it is the poet's task to turn it into an audience.

Gratitude is a fickle thing, indeed. A person taking aim presses the weapon to his chest and cheek, but when he hits, he discardsit with indifference.

Poetry, it is often said and loudly so, is life's true mirror. But a monkey looking into a work of literature looks in vain for Socrates.

People of talent resemble a musical instrument more closely than they do a musician. Without outside help, they produce not a single sound, but given even the slightest touch, and a magnificent tune emanates from them.

Nothing genuinely historical was ever lost in this country. For this reason we have two ruling parties: villains and fools.