No author is a man of genius to his publisher.

In the marvelous month of May when all the buds were bursting, then in my heart did love arise. In the marvelous month of May when all the birds were singing, then did I reveal to her my yearning and longing.

Where books are burnt, men finish up being burnt too.

Whether a revolution succeeds or fails people of great hearts will always be sacrificed to it.

Poverty sits by the cradle of all our great men and rocks all of them to manhood.

The men of action are, after all, only the unconscious instruments of the men of thought.

At noon I feel as though I could devour all the elephants of Hindostan, and then pick my teeth with the spire of Strasburg cathedral; in the evening I become so sentimental that I would fain drink up the Milky Way without reflecting how indigestible I should find the little fixed stars, and by night there is the Devil himself broke loose in my head and no mistake.