It Is A Kind Of

The State Only Aims At Instilling Those Qualities In Its Public By Which Its Demands Are Obeyed, And Its Exchequer Is Filled. Its Highest Attainment Is The Reduction Of Mankind To Clockwork. In Its Atmosphere All Those Finer And More Delicate Liberties, Which Require Treatment And Spacious Expansion, Inevitably Dry Up And Perish. The State Requires A Taxpaying Machine In Which There Is No Hitch, An Exchequer In Which There Is Never A Deficit, And A Public, Monotonous, Obedient, Colorless, Spiritless, Moving Humbly Like A Flock Of Sheep Along A Straight High Road Between Two Walls.

The Fire Of True Enthusiasm Is Like The Fires Of Baku, Which No Water Can Ever Quench, And Which Burn Steadily On From Night To Day, And Year To Year, Because Their Well-spring Is Eternal.

Women Hope That The Dead Love May Revive; But Men Know That Of All Dead Things None Are So Past Recall As A Dead Passion.

The Song That We Hear With Our Ears Is Only The Song That Is Sung In Our Hearts.

Friendship Is Usually Treated...as A Tough...thing Which Will Survive All Manner Of Bad Treatment. But This Is An Exceedingly Great And Foolish Error; It May Die In An Hour Of A Single Unwise Word.