I Hate Everything That Merely Instructs Me

Who Is The Happiest Man? He Who Is Alive To The Merit Of Others, And Can Rejoice In Their Enjoyment As If It Were His Own.

Neither A Work Of Nature Nor One Of Art We Get To Know When They Have Been Finished; We Must Surprise Them In The Process Of Beingcreated So As To Understand Them To Some Degree.

Happy Contractedness Of Youth, Nay, Of Mankind In General, That They Think Neither Of The High Nor The Deep, Of The True Nor The False, But Only Of What Is Suited To Their Own Conceptions.

What Makes Poetry? A Full Heart, Brimful Of One Noble Passion.

If Man Thinks About His Physical Or Moral State He Usually Discovers That He Is Ill.