Everlastingly chained to a single little fragment of the Whole, man himself develops into nothing but a fragment; everlastingly in his ear the monotonous sound of the wheel that he turns, he never develops the harmony of his being, and instead of putting the stamp of humanity upon his own nature, he becomes nothing more than the imprint of his occupation or of his specialized knowledge.

Wine invents nothing; it only tattles.

Historians are prophets with their face turned backward.

He who never ventures beyond actuality will never win the prize of truth.

Without a home must the soldier go, a changeful wanderer, and can warm himself at no home-lit hearth.

It is easy to give advice from a port of safety.

Ever building, building to the clouds, still building higher, and never reflecting that the poor narrow basis cannot sustain the giddy tottering column.