Poetry is the mother-tongue of the human race.
All human wisdom works and has worries and grief as reward.
The thirst for vengeance was the beautiful nature which Homer imitated.
The farther reason looks the greater is the haze in which it loses itself.
Everything is vain and tortures the spirit instead of calming and satisfying it.
What good to me is the festive garment of freedom when I am in a slave's smock at home?
Thus the public use of reason and freedom is nothing but a dessert, a sumptuous dessert.
Hence it happens that one takes words for concepts, and concepts for the things themselves.
Nature is a book, a letter, a fairy tale (in the philosophical sense) or whatever you want to call it.
If only I was as eloquent as Demosthenes, I would have to do no more than repeat a single word three times.