At first I was almost about to despair, I thought I never could bear it — but I did I bear it. The question remains: how?

There is one thing on earth more terrible than English music, and that is English painting.

The beauteous dragonfly's dancing By the waves of the rivulet glancing; She dances here and she dances there, The glimmering, glittering flutterer fair. Full many a beetle with loud applause Admires her dress of azure gauze, Admires her body's bright splendour, And also her figure so slender...

High in the air rises the forest of oaks, high over the oaks soar the eagle, high over the eagle sweep the clouds, high over the clouds gleam the stars... high over the stars sweep the angels.

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

Terrible as is war, it yet displays the spiritual grandeur of man daring to defy his mightiest hereditary enemy--death.

Whenever books are burned, men also in the end are burned.