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

The Portuguese, Dutch and English have been for a long time year after year, shipping home the treasures of India in their big vessels. We Germans have been all along been left to watch it. Germany would do likewise, but hers would be treasures of spiritual knowledge.

I consider it a degradation and a stain on my honor to submit to baptism in order to qualify myself for state employment in Prussia.

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.

In these times we fight for ideas and newspapers are our fortress.

Christianity is an idea, and as such is indestructible and immortal, like every idea.

Phychical pain is more easily borne than physical; and if I had my choice between a bad conscience and a bad tooth, I should choose the former.