The flowers of life are but visionary. How many pass away and leave no trace behind! How few yield any fruit,--and the fruit itself, how rarely does it ripen! And yet there are flowers enough; and is it not strange, my friend, that we should suffer the little that does really ripen to rot, decay, and perish unenjoyed?

He who is and remains true to himself and to others has the most attractive quality of the greatest talent.

We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds; our planet is the mental institution of the universe.

All perishable is but an allegory.

Everyone believes in his youth that the world really began with him, and that all merely exists for his sake.

Nature is, after all, the only book that offers important content on every page.

Whoever gives himself up to solitude, Ah! he is soon alone.