I had a lifelong quarrel with God, but in the end we made up.

Intellect is the soul of man, the only immortal part of him.

Great men are the commissioned guides of mankind, who rule their fellows because they are wiser.

The leafy blossoming present time springs from the whole past, remembered and unrememberable.

War is a quarrel between two thieves too cowardly to fight their own battle; therefore they take boys from one village and another village, stick them into uniforms, equip them with guns, and let them loose like wild beasts against one other.

Hardened round us, encasing wholly every notion we form is a wrapping of traditions, hearsay's, and mere words.

Does not every true man feel that he is himself made higher by doing reverence to what is really above him?