Pitch-black winter nights live in my bones.

It is the evening that questions thus from within me.

Do not paint a picture either of God or the devil on your walls: this will ruin both your walls and the atmosphere.

The beast in us must be[78] wheedled: ethic is necessary, that we may not be torn to pieces.

I love all who are like heavy drops falling one by one out of the dark cloud that lowereth over man: they herald the coming of the lightning, and succumb as heralds.

It is perhaps just dawning on five or six minds that physics, too, is only an interpretation and exegesis of the world (to suit us, if I may say so!) and not a world-explanation.

there they laugh: they do not understand me; I am not the mouth for these ears.