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.

Pretty women without religion are like flowers without perfume.

Out of my own great woe I make my little songs.

This was but a prelude; where books are burnt human-beings will be burnt in the end

Wild, dark times are rumbling toward us, and the prophet who wishes to write a new apocalypse will have to invent entirely new beasts, and beasts so terrible that the ancient animal symbols of St. John will seem like cooing doves and cupids in comparison.

Experience is a good school. But the fees are high.

Oh, what lies there are in kisses.