And so I ask myself: 'Where are your dreams?' And I shake my head and mutter: 'How the years go by!' And I ask myself again: 'What have you done with those years? Where have you buried your best moments? Have you really lived? Look,' I say to myself, 'how cold it is becoming all over the world!' And more years will pass and behind them will creep grim isolation. Tottering senility will come hobbling, leaning on a crutch, and behind these will come unrelieved boredom and despair. The world of fancies will fade, dreams will wilt and die and fall like autumn leaves from the trees. . . .

originality and a feeling of one's own dignity are achieved only through work and struggle.

We have all lost touch with life, we all limp, each to a greater or lesser degree.

Man is unhappy because he doesn't know he's happy. If anyone finds out he'll become happy at once.

The world stands on absurdities, and without them perhaps nothing at all would happen.

But what are years, what are months!" he would exclaim. "Why count the days, when even one day is enough for man to know all happiness.

So long as man remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully as to find someone to worship.