Chains Of Iron Or Of Silk-both Are

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.

Grace Is The Beauty Of Form Under The Influence Of Freedom.

The Game Of Life Looks Cheerful When One Carries A Treasure Safe In His Heart.

I Feel An Army In My Fist.

O God, How Lovely Still Is Life!