Tolerance is a proof of distrust in one's own ideals.

We forget our guilt when we have confessed it to another, but the other does not usually forget it.

There is a rollicking kindness that looks like malice.

We fear our neighbor's hostile mood because we are afraid that this mood will lead him to penetrate our secrets.

A soul which knows that it is loved, but does not itself love, betrays its sediment: its dregs come up.

The newspaper reader says: this party will ruin itself if it makes errors like this. My higher politics says: a party which makes errors like this is already finished -- it is no longer secure in its instincts.

The disappointed one speaks. I searched for great human beings; I always found only the apes of their ideals.