The Moor Has Done His Work, The

Everlastingly Chained To A Single Little Fragment Of The Whole, Man Himself Develops Into Nothing But A Fragment; Everlastingly In His Ear The Monotonous Sound Of The Wheel That He Turns, He Never Develops The Harmony Of His Being, And Instead Of Putting The Stamp Of Humanity Upon His Own Nature, He Becomes Nothing More Than The Imprint Of His Occupation Or Of His Specialized Knowledge.

When The Wine Goes In, Strange Things Come Out.

Fear Of Death Is Worse Than Dying.

The Lemonade Is Weak, Like Your Soul.

A Noble Soul Spreads Even Over A Face In Which The Architectonic Beauty Is Wanting An Irresistible Grace, And A Often Even Triumphs Over The Natural Disfavor.