Philosophy still moves too much straight ahead, and is not yet cyclical enough.

In many a poetic work, one gets here and there, instead of representation merely a title indicating that this or that was supposedto be represented here, that the artist has been prevented from doing it and most humbly asks to be kindly excused.

Every relationship of man to the infinite is religion, namely of a man in the full abundance of his humanity. Whenever a mathematician calculates infinity, that, to be sure, is not religion. Infinity conceived in this abundance is the Godhead.

Wit is an explosion of the compound spirit.

With respect to ingenious subconsciousness, I think, philosophers might well rival poets.

Wit is absolutely sociable spirit or aphoristic genius.

Religion must completely encircle the spirit of ethical man like his element, and this luminous chaos of divine thoughts and feelings is called enthusiasm.