One makes mistakes; that is life. But it is never a mistake to have loved. - Romain Rolland

I lay there turning over the pages of my life, thinking of what I had done and left undone, and of the dreams from which I had awakened. How far off seem the bright visions of early boyhood, and how poor and bare the reality looks. I thought of all my expectations, and the small results of my labors; of my wife, who certainly cannot be called either good-natured or good-looking, of my sons who hardly seem to belong to me, with whom I have nothing in common: — of the faithlessness and folly of those around us, of our poor France torn by civil wars and religious persecutions; of my works of art scattered, life itself a handful of ashes, soon to be blown away by the breath of the Destroyer. — I put my face close up against the oak tree, and lay there weeping quietly all among the big roots which cradled me like a father’s arms; and I felt that he listened.

The greatest book is not the one whose message engraves itself on the brain, as a telegraphic message engraves itself on the ticker-tape, but the one whose vital impact opens up other viewpoints, and from writer to reader spreads the fire that is fed by the various essences, until it becomes a vast conflagration leaping from forest to forest.

Porque, al descubrir un alma, es necesario distinguir primero la hora en que se la sorprende: nadie sigue siendo el mismo durante el curso de toda una vida, y menos que nadie una mujer como Bettina, entregada por completo a su tierno y loco corazón. Más tarde, los rasgos se modifican, la edad los pliega y convierte en mueca la sonrisa juvenil. No la vieron con idéntico favor los ojos de Goethe en 1825 y en 1807. Mas aquí debemos hablar de la pequeña Mignon de veinte a veinticinco años”

Pasaje de
Goethe y Beethoven - Miguel Ángel
Romain Rolland