Is it not enough that we cannot make one another happy, must we also rob one another of the pleasures that any heart may permit itself now and then? And name me a person who in a bad mood will be decent enough to hide it, to bear it alone, without destroying the joy around him. Is it not rather an inner dissatisfaction with our own unworthiness, a dislike of ourselves that is always associated with envy aggravated by foolish conceit? We see people happy and not made happy by us, and that is unbearable.

Life is not anything, but an opportunity for something.

Art is a mediator of the unspeakable.

Superstition is the poetry of life.

All professional men are handicapped by not being allowed to ignore things which are useless.

Even dirt glitters when the sun is shining upon it

Culture which smooth the whole world licks, Also unto the devil sticks.