Ordinarily he was insane, but he had lucid moments when he was merely stupid
Whenever books are burned, men also in the end are burned.
He only profits from praise who values criticism.
Lo, sleep is good, better is death--in sooth The best of all were never to be born.
Religion cannot sink lower than when somehow it is raised to a state religion ... It becomes then an avowed mistress.
Perhaps already I am dead, And these perhaps are phantoms vain; - These motley phantasies that pass At night through my disordered brain. Perhaps with ancient heathen shapes, Old faded gods, this brain is full; Who, for their most unholy rites, Have chosen a dead poet's skull.