There is only one writer in whom I find something that reminds me of the directness of style which is found in the Bible. It is Shakespeare.

My heart resembles the ocean; has storm, and ebb and flow; and many a beautiful pearl lies hid in its depths below.

Music played at weddings always reminds me of the music played for soldiers before they go into battle.

Wherever they burn books they will also, in the end, burn human beings.

Lyrical poetry is much the same an every age, as the songs of the nightingales in every spring-time.

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.

Oh, what lies there are in kisses.