If You Want To Reach The Infinite,

If The Word Is Not Dead When It Reaches The Hearer, He Murders It At Once By A Contradiction, A Stipulation, A Condition, A Digression, An Interruption, And All The Thousand Tricks Of Conversation.

Sometimes Our Fate Resembles A Fruit Tree In Winter. Who Would Think That Those Branches Would Turn Green Again And Blossom, But We Hope It, We Know It.

If Children Grew Up According To Early Indications, We Should Have Nothing But Geniuses.

The Mortal Race Is Far Too Weak Not To Grow Dizzy On Unwonted Brights. [ger., Das Sterbliche Geschlecht Ist Viel Zu Schwach In Ungewohnter Hohe Nicht Zu Schwindeln.]

Poetry Is The Universal Possession Of Mankind, Revealing Itself Everywhere, And At All Times, In Hundreds And Hundreds Of Men.