Praises for our past triumphs are as feathers to a dead bird.

Praises for our past triumphs are as feathers to a dead bird.

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.

With the stones we cast at them, geniuses build new roads with them.

Reading the epitaphs, our only salvation lies in resurrecting the dead and burying the living.

History is the transformation of tumultuous conquerors into silent footnotes.

Jealousy would be far less torturous if we understood that love is a passion entirely unrelated to our merits.

We endeavor to stuff the universe into the gullet of an aphorism.

If we were brought to trial for the crimes we have committed against ourselves, few would escape the gallows.

In the spider-web of facts, many a truth is strangled.