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

A brainiac notices everything, an ignoramus comments about everything.

Nature, like a true poet, abhors abrupt transitions.

Talking and eloquence are not the same: to speak and to speak well are two things. A fool may talk, but a wise man speaks.

You cannot feed the hungry on statistics.

You talk of our having an idea; we do not have an idea. The idea has us, and martyrs us, and scourges us, and drives us into the arena to fight and die for it, whether we want to or not.

The stones here speak to me, and I know their mute language. Also, they seem deeply to feel what I think. So a broken column of the old Roman times, an old tower of Lombardy, a weather- beaten Gothic piece of a pillar understands me well. But I am a ruin myself, wandering among ruins.