The Dangers Of Life Are Infinite, And

To Blow Is Not To Play On The Flute; You Must Move The Fingers. [ger., Blasen Ist Nicht Floten, Ihr Musst Die Finger Bewegen.]

I Had Toward The Poetic Art A Peculiar Relation Which Was Only Practical After I Had Cherished In My Mind For A Long Time A Subject Which Possessed Me, A Model Which Inspired Me, A Predecessor Who Attracted Me, Until At Length, After I Had Molded It

Enjoy What You Can, Endure What You Must.

Love Can Do Much, But Duty More.

Those Who Hope For No Other Life Are Dead Even For This.