Reduced to a miserable mass level, the level of a Hitler, German Romanticism broke out into hysterical barbarism.

Only love, and not reason, yields kind thoughts.

People's behavior makes sense if you think about it in terms of their goals, needs, and motives.

Distance in a straight line has no mystery. The mystery is in the sphere.

Technology and comfort - having those, people speak of culture, but do not have it.

Time has no divisions to mark its passage, there is never a thunder-storm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a new century begins it is only we mortals who ring bells and fire off pistols.

Even in a personal sense, after all, art is an intensified life. By art one is more deeply satisfied and more rapidly used up. It engraves on the countenance of its servant the traces of imaginary and intellectual adventures, and even if he has outwardly existed in cloistral tranquility, it leads in the long term to overfastidiousness, over-refinement, nervous fatigue and overstimulation, such as can seldom result from a life of the most extravagant passions and pleasures.