The old harlot, German philosophy, has finally turned into a church lady.

The present is never poetic as it serves necessity, necessity, however, is prosaic.

Lap-dogs and blood-hounds enjoy the greatest respect at court; house-dogs and no dogs at all are not even considered.

Praised be the good willing women who understand and take part in the fun--the body is an exacting beater, and even the heart is made of flesh.

There is one privilege we'll never lose; currently it's called nationality. It means that everyone was born somewhere, which is infact self-evident.

Soon there will be nothing truly profound that is not achieved by everyone, and of the difficult things in this world only one will be left: simplicity.

Only by himself, with one acre and a house, will a dunce be a dunce. Once he manages to gain power, he'll turn into a scoundrel.