The Evening Of A Well Spent Youth

The Soul Paints Itself In Our Machines.

A Work Is Perfectly Finished Only When Nothing Can Be Added To It And Nothing Taken Away.

Misery Is Almost Always The Result Of Thinking.

I Do Not Call Reason That Brutal Reason Which Crushes With Its Weight What Is Holy And Sacred, That Malignant Reason Which Delights In The Errors It Succeeds In Discovering, That Unfeeling And Scornful Reason Which Insults Credulity.

The Joy Which Is Caused By Truth And Noble Thoughts Shows Itself In The Words By Which They Are Expressed.