Time has no divisions to mark its passage, there is never a thunderstorm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a new century begins it is only we mortals who ring bells and fire off pistols.

To rest in the arms of perfection is the desire of any man intent upon creating excellence.

War is only a cowardly escape from the problems of peace.

We come out of the dark and go into the dark again, and in between lie the experiences of our life.

What the collectivist age wants, allows, and approves is the perpetual holiday from the self.

What we call mourning for our dead is perhaps not so much grief at not being able to call them back as it is grief at not being able to want to do so.

Whatever profits man, that is the truth. In him all nature is comprehended, in all nature only he is created, and all nature only for him. He is the measure of all things, and his welfare is the sole and single criterion of truth.

When one day is like all the others, then they are all like one; complete uniformity would make the longest life seem short, and as though it had stolen away from us unawares.