Man,--the aristocrat amongst the animals.
Where books are burned in the end people will be burned too.
It is only kindred griefs that draw forth our tears, and each weeps really for himself.
Write . . . write . . . pencil . . . paper.
Music is a strange thing. I would almost say it is a miracle. For it stands halfway between thought and phenomenon, between spirit and matter.
Every period of time is a sphinx that throws itself into the abyss as soon as its riddle has been solved.