Books And Harlots Have Their Quarrels In

The Only Way Of Knowing A Person Is To Love Them Without Hope.

He Who Asks Fortune-tellers The Future Unwittingly Forfeits An Inner Intimation Of Coming Events That Is A Thousand Times More Exact Than Anything They May Say.

A Bearer Of News Of Death Appears To Himself As Very Important. His Feeling - Even Against All Reason - Makes Him A Messenger From The Realm Of The Dead.

Things Are Only Mannequins And Even The Great World-historical Events Are Only Costumes Beneath Which They Exchange Glances With Nothingness.

Even The Most Perfect Reproduction Of A Work Of Art Is Lacking In One Element: Its Presence In Time And Space, Its Unique Existence At The Place Where It Happens To Be.