Money is the god of our time, and Rothschild is his prophet.
The beauteous eyes of the spring's fair night With comfort are downward gazing.
We know only that our entire existence is forced into new paths and disrupted, that new circumstances, new joys and new sorrows await us, and that the unknown has its uncanny attractions, alluring and at the same time anguishing.
From every Englishman emanates a kind of gas, the deadly choke-damp of boredom.
Oh, what lies there are in kisses.
Poverty sits by the cradle of all our great men and rocks all of them to manhood.