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— Juvenal"An incurable itch for scribbling takes possession of many, and grows inveterate in their insane breasts."
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Thus one memory follows another until the waves dash together over our heads, and a deep sigh swells the breast, which warns us that we have forgotten to breathe in the midst of these pure thoughts.
— Max Muller
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Assuredly there is no more lovely worship of God than that for which no image is required, but which springs up in our breast spontaneously when nature speaks to the soul, and the soul speaks to nature face to face.
— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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