In The Works Of Man, Everything Is

In The Works Of Man, Everything Is As Poor As Its Author; Vision Is Confined, Means Are Limited, Scope Is Restricted, Movements Are Labored, And Results Are Humdrum.

What A Miserable World!--trouble If We Love, And Trouble If We Do Not Love.

All Pain Is A Punishment, And Every Punishment Is Inflicted For Love As Much As For Justice.

There Is No Man Who Desires As Passionately As A Russian. If We Could Imprison A Russian Desire Beneath A Fortress, That Fortress Would Explode.

In The Whole Vast Dome Of Living Nature There Reigns An Open Violence, A Kind Of Prescriptive Fury Which Arms All The Creatures To Their Common Doom: As Soon As You Leave The Inanimate Kingdom You Find The Decree Of Violent Death Inscribed On The Very Frontiers Of Life.