A man only understands what is akin to something already existing in himself.

From every spot on earth we are equally near heaven and the infinite.

Man becomes man only by his intelligence, but he is man only by his heart.

Destiny has two ways of crushing us - by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling them.

The tragic solemnity of existence strikes us with terrible force on that morning when we wake to find the mournful words "too late" ringing in our ears.

The germs of all things are in every heart, and the greatest criminals as well as the greatest heroes are but different modes of ourselves.

I find myself regarding existence as though from beyond the tomb, from another world; all is strange to me; I am, as it were, outside my own body and individuality; I am depersonalized, detached, cut adrift. Is this madness?