The life of the wealthy is one long Sunday.
We are only puppets, our strings are being pulled by unknown forces.
The death clock is ticking slowly in our breast, and each drop of blood measures its time, and our life is a lingering fever.
The stars are scattered all over the sky like shimmering tears, there must be great pain in the eye from which they trickled.
Whoever finishes a revolution only halfway, digs his own grave.
A good man with a good conscience doesn't walk so fast.
The power of the people and the power of reason are one.
You women could make someone fall in love even with a lie.
Raise your eyes and count the small gang of your oppressors who are only strong through the blood they suck from you and through your arms which you lend them unwillingly.
Revolution is like Saturn, it devours its own children.
One must love humanity in order to reach out into the unique essence of each individual: no one can be too low or too ugly.
The breath of an aristocrat is the death rattle of freedom.
The statue of Freedom has not been cast yet, the furnace is hot, we can all still burn our fingers.
We are always on stage, even when we are stabbed in earnest at the end.
Love is a peculiar thing.
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