I do not know the meaning of my sadness; there is an old fairy tale that I cannot get out of my mind.

Sleep is lovely, death is better still, not to have been born is of course the miracle.

It is only kindred griefs that draw forth our tears, and each weeps really for himself.

I am no longer a divine biped. I am no longer the freest German after Goethe, as Ruge named me in healthier days. I am no longer the great hero No. 2, who was compared with the grape-crowned Dionysius, whilst my colleague No. 1 enjoyed the title of a Grand Ducal Weimarian Jupiter. I am no longer a joyous, somewhat corpulent Hellenist, laughing cheerfully down upon the melancholy Nazarenes. I am now a poor fatally-ill Jew, an emaciated picture of woe, an unhappy man.

I do not know if she was virtuous, but she was ugly, and with a woman that is half the battle.

If one has no heart, one cannot write for the masses.

Christ rode on an ass, but now asses ride on Christ.