In the spider-web of facts, many a truth is strangled.
Praises for our past triumphs are as feathers to a dead bird.
We endeavor to stuff the universe into the gullet of an aphorism.
With the stones we cast at them, geniuses build new roads with them.
History is the transformation of tumultuous conquerors into silent footnotes.
Man is ready to die for an idea, provided that idea is not quite clear to him.
There are those whose sole claim to profundity is the discovery of exceptions to the rules.
Reading the epitaphs, our only salvation lies in resurrecting the dead and burying the living.
If we were brought to trial for the crimes we have committed against ourselves, few would escape the gallows.
Jealousy would be far less torturous if we understood that love is a passion entirely unrelated to our merits.