Nature, like a true poet, abhors abrupt transitions.

Silence can be defined as conversation with an Englishman

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.

All I really want is enough to live on, a little house in the country... and a tree in the garden with seven of my enemies hanging in it.

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.

There, where one burns books... one, in the end, burns men.

If one has no heart, one cannot write for the masses.