Where Books Are Burnt, Men Finish Up

Sleep Is Good, Death Is Better; But Of Course, The Best Thing Would To Have Never Been Born At All.

Human Misery Is Too Great For Men To Die Without Faith.

The Swan In The Pool Is Singing, And Up And Down Doth He Steer, And, Singing Gently Ever, Dips Under The Water Clear.

The Violets Prattle And Titter, And Gaze On The Stars High Above.

At Noon I Feel As Though I Could Devour All The Elephants Of Hindostan, And Then Pick My Teeth With The Spire Of Strasburg Cathedral; In The Evening I Become So Sentimental That I Would Fain Drink Up The Milky Way Without Reflecting How Indigestible I Should Find The Little Fixed Stars, And By Night There Is The Devil Himself Broke Loose In My Head And No Mistake.