The democratic age mourns the value of human beings.

All writers are to some extent inventors$$$ describing people as they would like to see them in life.

Can I see another's woe and not be in sorrow$$$ too? Can I see another's grief and not seek for kind relief?

He who binds to himself a joy<br>Does the winged life destroy;<br>But he who kisses the joy as it flies<br>Lives in eternity's sun rise.

Thus men forgot that all deities reside in the human breast.

The Sick Rose<br>O Rose$$$ thou art sick!<br>The invisible worm$$$<br>That flies in the night$$$<br>In the howling storm$$$<br>Has found out thy bed<br>Of crimson joy;<br>And his dark secret love<br>Does thy life destroy.

We read to find ourselves$$$ more fully and more strangely than otherwise we could hope to find.

But when he has done this$$$ let him not say that he knows better than his master$$$ for he only holds a candle in sunshine.

An appeal to fear never finds an echo in German hearts.

Politics are not a science based on logic; they are the capacity of always choosing at each instant$$$ in constantly changing situations$$$ the least harmful$$$ the most useful.