When shall I at last retire into solitude alone, without companions, without joy and without sorrow, with only the sacred certainty that all is a dream? When, in my rags—without desires—shall I retire contented into the mountains? When, seeing that my body is merely sickness and crime, age and death, shall I—free, fearless, and blissful—retire to the forest? When? When, oh when?

Every village has its simpleton, and if one does not exist they invent one to pass the time.

The truth is that we all are one, that all of us together create god, that god is not man's ancestor, but his descendant.

Each man must have his own special route to lead him to God.

My soul comes from better worlds and I have an incurable homesickness of the stars.

I possess no weapon but love. With that I have come to do battle. Help me!

How could I, who loved life so intensely, have let myself be entangled for so long in that balderdash of books and paper blackened with ink!