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

Whoever has not arrived at the clear insight that there might be greatness entirely outside his own sphere for which he has no understanding, whoever does not have at least a dim inkling in which area of the human spirit this greatness might be situated: he is within his own sphere either without genius, or he has not educated himself up to the point of the classical attitude.

There are writers in Germany who drink the Absolute like water; and there are books in which even the dogs make references to the Infinite.

The obsession with moderation is the spirit of castrated narrow-mindedness.

The life and vigor of poetry consists of the fact that it steps out of itself, tears out a section of religion, then withdraws into itself to assimilate it. The same is true of philosophy.

The historian is a prophet looking backward.

All men are somewhat ridiculous and grotesque, just because they are men; and in this respect artists might well be regarded as man multiplied by two. So it is, was, and shall be.