Time passes cold and indifferent over us; it knows nothing of our joys or sorrows; it leads us with ice-cold hand deeper and deeper into the labyrinth.
The noble man is only God's image.
He who loves not flowers, has lost all love and fear of God.
Love knows no winter; no, no! It is, and remains the sign of spring.
He who considers himself a paragon of wisdom is sure to commit some superlatively stupid act.
Who cannot but see oftentimes how strange the threads of our destiny run? Oft it is only for a moment the favorable instant is presented. We miss it, and months and years are lost.