Superstition Is The Poetry Of Life.

Only The Heart Without A Stain Knows Perfect Ease. [ger., Ganz Unbefleckt Geniesst Sich Nur Das Herz.]

The Greater Part Of All The Mischief In The World Arises From The Fact That Men Do Not Sufficiently Understand Their Own Aims.

The Flowers Of Life Are But Visionary. How Many Pass Away And Leave No Trace Behind! How Few Yield Any Fruit,--and The Fruit Itself, How Rarely Does It Ripen! And Yet There Are Flowers Enough; And Is It Not Strange, My Friend, That We Should Suffer The Little That Does Really Ripen To Rot, Decay, And Perish Unenjoyed?

War Is In Truth A Disease In Which The Juices That Serve Health And Maintenance Are Used For The Sole Purpose Of Nourishing Something Foreign, Something At Odds With Nature.

Hope Is The Second Soul Of The Unhappy.