Time Itself Is An Element.

Life Seems So Vulgar, So Easily Content With The Commonplace Things Of Every Day, And Yet It Always Nurses And Cherishes Certain Higher Claims In Secret, And Looks About For The Means Of Satisfying Them.

Mannerism Is Always Longing To Have Done, And Has No True Enjoyment In Work. A Genuine, Really Great Talent, On The Other Hand, Has Its Greatest Happiness In Execution.

No Sacred Fane Requires Us To Submit To Insult.

Our Destiny Often Looks Like A Fruit-tree In Winter. Who Would Think From Its Pitiable Aspect That Those Rigid Boughs, Those Rough Twigs Could Next Spring Again Be Green, Bloom, And Even Bear Fruit? Yet We Hope It, We Know It.

It Is Always A Sign Of An Unproductive Time When It Concerns Itself With Petty And Technical Aspects [in Philology], And Likewiseit Is A Sign Of An Unproductive Person To Pursue Such Trifles.