I am better than my reputation
Art is the right hand of Nature. The latter has only given us being, the former has made us men.
O'er Ocean, with a thousand masts, sails forth the stripling bold- One boat, hard rescued from the deep, draws into port the old!
The hat is the pride of man; for he who cannot keep his hat on before kings and emperors is no free man.
To one, science is an exalted goddess; to another it is a cow which provides him with butter.
Life did not present its sunny side to thee.
Time consecrates; and what is gray with age becomes religion.
The dictates of the heart are the voice of fate.
Deep meaning lies often in childish play.
Foster the beautiful, and every hour thou tallest new flowers to birth.
Truth is more than a dream and a song.
No, no! I do nature injustice. She gave us inventive faculty, and set us naked, and helpless on the shore of this great ocean,--the world; swim those who can, the heavy may go to the bottom.
Have Hope. Though clouds environs now, And gladness hides her face in scorn, Put thou the shadow from thy brow, - No night but hath its morn.
Of all the possessions of this life fame is the noblest; when the body has sunk into the dust the great name still lives.
From the moment fear begins I have ceased to fear.
The lemonade is weak, like your soul.
Death is a mighty mediator. There all the flames of rage are extinguished, hatred is appeased, and angelic pity, like a weeping sister, bends with gentle and close embrace over the funeral urn.
O who knows what slumbers in the background of the times?
It would be necessary that they should be already sages to love wisdom...
Ever building, building to the clouds, still building higher, and never reflecting that the poor narrow basis cannot sustain the giddy tottering column.
Rigor pushed too far is sure to miss its aim, however good, as the bow snaps that is bent too stiffly.
Let him that sows the serpent's teeth not hope to reap a joyous harvest. Every crime has, in the moment of its perpetration, its own avenging angel,--dark misgivings at the inmost heart.
While the womanly god demands our veneration, the godlike woman kindles our love; but while we allow ourselves to melt in the celestial loveliness, the celestial self-sufficiency holds us back in awe.
What shall he fear that does not fear death.
The voice of our age seems by no means favorable to art, at all events to that kind of art to which my inquiry is directed. The course of events has given a direction to the genius of the time that threatens to remove it continually further from the ideal of art. For art has to leave reality, it has to raise itself bodily above necessity and neediness; for art is the daughter of freedom, and it requires its prescriptions and rules to be furnished by the necessity of spirits and not by that of matter.
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