One can't carry one's father's corpse about everywhere.

My, how beautiful is war! its songs, its leisure!

The plastic virtues: purity, unity, and truth, keep nature in subjection.

Without poets, without artists... everything would fall apart into chaos. There would be no more seasons, no more civilizations, no more thought, no more humanity, no more life even; and impotent darkness would reign forever. Poets and artists together determine the features of their age, and the future meekly conforms to their edit.

Come to the edge.' 'We can't. We're afraid.' 'Come to the edge.' 'We can't. We will fall!' 'Come to the edge.' And they came. And he pushed them. And they flew.

In this mirror, I am enclosed a live and real as you. Imagine angels and not like the reflections.

I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of the wanderer's death