It Is Not The End Of Joy

A Variety Of Nothing Is Superior To A Monotony Of Something.

For The Infinite Has Sowed His Name In The Heavens In Burning Stars, But On The Earth He Has Sowed His Name In Tender Flowers.

The German Language Is The Organ Among The Languages.

As A Man Grows Older It Is Harder And Harder To Frighten Him.

I Would Rather Dwell In The Dim Fog Of Superstition Than In Air Rarefied To Nothing By The Air-pump Of Unbelief-in Which The Panting Breast Expires, Vainly And Convulsively Gasping For Breath.