The World's History Is The World's Judgment.

O God, How Lovely Still Is Life!

History, Insofar As It Accustoms Human Beings To Comprehend The Whole Of The Past And To Hasten Forward With Its Conclusions Into The Far Future, Conceals The Boundaries Of Birth And Death, Which Enclose The Life Of The Human Being So Narrowly And Oppressively, And With A Kind Of Optical Illusion, Expands His Short Existence Into Endless Space, Leading The Individual Imperceptibly Over Into Humanity.

Man Is Never So Authentically Himself As When At Play.

What Else Is Chance But The Rude Stone Which Receives Its Life From The Sculptor's Hand? Providence Gives Us Chance, And Man Must Mould It To His Own Designs.

No Emperor Has The Power To Dictate To The Heart.