If one has no heart, one cannot write for the masses.

The cloudlets are lazily sailing O'er the blue Atlantic sea; And mid the twilight there hovers A shadowy figure o'er me.

A pine tree standeth lonely In the North on an upland bare; It standeth whitely shrouded With snow, and sleepeth there. It dreameth of a Palm tree Which far in the East alone, In the mournful silence standeth On its ridge of burning stone.

The years keep coming and going, Men will arise & depart; Only one thing is immortal: The love that is in my heart.

There, where one burns books... one, in the end, burns men.

Everywhere that a great soul gives utterance to its thoughts, there also is a Golgotha.

We know only that our entire existence is forced into new paths and disrupted, that new circumstances, new joys and new sorrows await us, and that the unknown has its uncanny attractions, alluring and at the same time anguishing.