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?

This was but a prelude; where books are burnt human-beings will be burnt in the end

Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.

With his nightcaps and the tatters of his dressing-gown he patches up the gaps in the structure of the universe.

Lo, sleep is good, better is death--in sooth The best of all were never to be born.

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

She resembles the Venus de Milo: she is very old, has no teeth, and has white spots on her yellow skin.