Works

It was a vision ...

Two angels appeared to me ... two genii.

I say angels, genii, because both had no clothes on their naked bodies, and behind their shoulders rose long powerful wings.
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WORKMAN. Why do you come crawling up to us? What do ye want? You're none of us.... Get along!

MAN WITH WHITE HANDS. I am one of you, comrades!
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'Thou shalt hear the fool's judgment....' You always told the truth, O great singer of ours. You spoke it this time, too.
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How empty, dull, and useless is almost every day when it is spent! How few the traces it leaves behind it! How meaningless, how foolish those hours as they coursed by one after another!
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On dirt, on stinking wet straw under the shelter of a tumble-down barn, turned in haste into a camp hospital, in a ruined Bulgarian village, for over a fortnight she lay dying of typhus.
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When I hear the praises of the rich man Rothschild, who out of his immense revenues devotes whole thousands to the education of children, the care of the sick, the support of the aged, I admire and am touched.
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There was once a town, the inhabitants of which were so passionately fond of poetry, that if some weeks passed by without the appearance of any good new poems, they regarded such a poetic dearth as a public misfortune.
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What an insignificant trifle may sometimes transform the whole man!

Full of melancholy thought, I walked one day along the highroad.
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What shall I think when I come to die, if only I am in a condition to think anything then?
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