The essence of man is, discontent, divine discontent; a sort of love without a beloved, the ache we feel in a member we no longer have.

The poet begins where the man ends. The man's lot is to live his human life, the poet's to invent what is nonexistent.

We distinguish the excellent man from the common man by saying that the former is the one who makes great demands on himself, and the latter who makes no demands on himself.

Excellence means when a man or woman asks of himself more than others do.

In order to master the unruly torrent of life the learned man meditates, the poet quivers, and the political hero erects the fortress of his will.

We live at a time when man believes himself fabulously capable of creation, but he does not know what to create.