Our Bodies Are Molded Rivers.

The Art Of Writing Books Is Not Yet Invented. But It Is At The Point Of Being Invented. Fragments Of This Nature Are Literary Seeds. There May Be Many An Infertile Grain Among Them: Nevertheless, If Only Some Come Up!

Man Is A Sun And His Senses Are The Planets.

The World Must Become Romanticized, And In That Way We Find Again Its Original Meaning For Us.

It Is Certain My Belief Gains Quite Infinitely The Very Moment I Can Convince Another Mind Thereof

A God-intoxicated Man. [ger., Gott-trunkener Mensch.]