The Ideal Of Beauty Is Simplicity And

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?

What A Day It Is When We Must Envy The Men In Their Graves.

What Sort Of Faults May We Retain, Nay, Even Cherish In Ourselves? Those Faults Which Are Rather Pleasant Than Offensive To Others.

One Does Not Get To Know That One Exists Until One Rediscovers Oneself In Others.

The Main Thing Is To Have A Soul That Loves The Truth And Harbours It Where He Finds It. And Another Thing: Truth Requires Constant Repetition, Because Error Is Being Preached About Us All The Time, And Not Only By Isolated Individuals But By The Masses. In The Newspapers And Encyclopedias, In Schools And Universities, Everywhere Error Rides High And Basks In The Consciousness Of Having The Majority On Its Side.