Lyrical poetry is much the same an every age, as the songs of the nightingales in every spring-time.

There is one thing on earth more terrible than English music, and that is English painting.

God will forgive me. It's his job." Heine said this on his deathbed (1856). Hilarious. He must have thought that up years before and counted the seconds to use it.

The beauteous dragonfly's dancing By the waves of the rivulet glancing; She dances here and she dances there, The glimmering, glittering flutterer fair. Full many a beetle with loud applause Admires her dress of azure gauze, Admires her body's bright splendour, And also her figure so slender...

High in the air rises the forest of oaks, high over the oaks soar the eagle, high over the eagle sweep the clouds, high over the clouds gleam the stars... high over the stars sweep the angels.

If the Romans had been obliged to learn Latin, they would never have found time to conquer the world.

That was only the beginning - where one burns books, one will finally also burn people.