A musical theme once exhausted, finds its due refuge and repose in silence.

A microscopic phantom of the universe; this is all that we are able to be.

The man who has no inner-life is a slave to his surroundings.

Every living being seeks instinctively to complete itself.

Time is the supreme illusion. It is but the inner prism by which we decompose being and life, the mode under which we perceive successively what is simultaneous in idea.

To feel keenly the poetry of a morning's roses, one has to have just escaped from the claws of this vulture which we call sickness.

Materialism coarsens and petrifies everything, making everything vulgar, and every truth false.