A Love That Dies Has Never Lived.

It's The Misfortune Of German Authors That Not A Single One Of Them Dares To Expose His True Character. Everyone Thinks That He Has To Be Better Than He Is.

Without A Notion Of The Transcendental, Human Beings Would, Indeed, Be Animals; However, Only Fools Can Be Convinced Of It, And Only Degenerates Need Such A Conviction.

Man Will Return To His Origins. Goethe Has Finally Become As Squiggly As The City Of His Fathers.

Moons And Years Pass By And Are Gone Forever, But A Beautiful Moment Shimmers Through Life A Ray Of Light.

I Love The Pride Whose Measure Is Its Own Eminence And Not The Insignificance Of Someone Else.