Very few people love others for what they are; rather, they love what they lend them, their own selves, their own idea of them.

The finished man, you know, is difficult to please; a growing mind will ever show you gratitude. --Faust 1, lines 182-3

Come my little one, and give me your hand.

Music is so elevated that it is beyond the reach of intellect and there flows from it an influence which is all-potent, and which noone can explain.

There is nothing more frightful than for a teacher to know only what his scholars are intended to know.

Truth is a torch, but a huge one, and so it is only with blinking eyes what we all of us try to get past it, in actual terror of being burnt.

It is working within limits that the craftsman reveals himself.