Only as an aesthetic product can the world be justified to all eternity.
This is what is hardest: to close the open hand because one loves.
Our shortcomings are the eyes with which we see the ideal.
What do we have in common with the rosebud, which trembles because a drop of dew lies on its body?
Only individuals have a sense of responsibility.
How much truth does a spirit endure, how much truth does it dare?