When Art Dresses Itself In The Most

There Is Always Some Madness In Love. But There Is Also Always Some Reason In Madness.

In A Man Devoted To Knowledge, Pity Seems Almost Ridiculous, Like Delicate Hands On A Cyclops.

Every Great Love Brings With It The Cruel Idea Of Killing The Object Of Its Love So That It May Be Removed Once And For All From The Wicked Game Of Change: For Love Dreads Change Even More Than Annihilation.

No Journey Is Too Great, When One Finds What One Seeks.

The Various Languages Placed Side By Side Show That With Words It Is Never A Question Of Truth, Never A Question Of Adequate Expression; Otherwise, There Would Not Be So Many Languages. The 'thing In Itself' (which Is Precisely What The Pure Truth, Apart From Any Of Its Consequences, Would Be) Is Likewise Something Quite Incomprehensible To The Creator Of Language And Something Not In The Least Worth Striving For.