God will forgive me. It’s his job.
If the Romans had been obliged to learn Latin, they would never have found time to conquer the world.
This was but a prelude; where books are burnt human-beings will be burnt in the end.
Where books are burnt, men finish up being burnt too.
No author is a man of genius to his publisher.
Twelve Dancings are dancing, and taking no rest, And closely their hands together are press’d; And soon as a dance has come to a close, Another begins, and each merrily goes.
We know only that our entire existence is forced into new paths and disrupted, that new circumstances, new joys and new sorrows await us, and that the unknown has its uncanny attractions, alluring and at the same time anguishing.
There is only one writer in whom I find something that reminds me of the directness of style which is found in the Bible. It is Shakespeare.
He is noble who both feels and acts nobly.
The artist is the child in the popular fable, every one of whose tears was a pearl.
The eyes of spring, so azure, Are peeping from the ground; They are the darling violets, That I in nosegays bound.
The lotus flower is troubled At the sun’s resplendent light; With sunken head and sadly She dreamily waits for the night.
And the dancing has begun now, And the Dancings whirl round gaily In the waltz’s giddy mazes, And the ground beneath them trembles.
The violets prattle and titter, And gaze on the stars high above.
Glow-worms on the ground are moving, As if in the torch-dance circling.
What Christian love cannot do is effected by a common hatred.
You talk of our having an idea; we do not have an idea. The idea has us, and martyrs us, and scourges us, and drives us into the arena to fight and die for it, whether we want to or not.
Photography is a witness against the mistaken opinion that art is an imitation of nature.
If thou lookest on the lime-leaf, Thou a heart’s form will discover; Therefore are the lindens ever Chosen seats of each fond lover.
And over the pond are sailing Two swans all white as snow; Sweet voices mysteriously wailing Pierce through me as onward they go. They sail along, and a ringing Sweet melody rises on high; And when the swans begin singing, They presently must die.