Everything being a constant carnival, there is no carnival left.
There are souls which, crab-like, crawl continually toward darkness, going back in life rather than advancing in it, using what experience they have to increase their deformity, growing worse without ceasing, and becoming steeped more and more thoroughly in an intensifying wickedness.
Many great actions are committed in small struggles.
Do you hear the people sing? Singing a song of angry men
The wise man does not grow old, but ripens.
My greatness does not extend to this shelf.