A man that is born falls into a dream like a man who falls into the sea. If he tries to climb out into the air as inexperienced people endeavor to do, he drowns.
Joy and sorrow in this world pass into each other, mingling their forms and their murmurs in the twilight of life as mysterious as an overshadowed ocean, while the dazzling brightness of supreme hopes lies far off, fascinating and still, on the distant edge of the horizon.
I have attempted to tear asunder the veil you have hung to conceal from us the pain of life, and I have been wounded by the mystery...Oedipus, half way to finding the word of the enigma, young Faust, regretting already the simple life, the life of the heart, I come back to you repentant, reconciled, O gentle deceiver!
For you need imagination to form a notion of beauty at all, and still more to discover your ideal in an unfamiliar shape.
He was easily sorry for people.
No eloquence could have been so withering to one's belief in mankind as his final burst of sincerity.