A man's name is not like a mantle which merely hangs about him...but a perfectly fitting garment, which, like the skin, has grown over him, at which one cannot rake and scrape without injuring the man himself.

Never by reflection, but only by doing is self- knowledge possible to one.

To be pleased with one's limits is a wretched state.

Lord Byron is only great as a poet; as soon as he reflects he is a child.

Dream no small dreams for they have no power to move the hearts of men.

When translating one must proceed up to the intranslatable; only then one becomes aware of the foreign nation and the foreign tongue.

Our destiny often looks like a fruit-tree in winter. Who would think from its pitiable aspect that those rigid boughs, those rough twigs could next spring again be green, bloom, and even bear fruit? Yet we hope it, we know it.