"The solemn stillness of the morning hour lay over the pavement; above in the window panes the early gold of the young sun glistened, and high above … - Rosa Luxemburg

I suppose I must be out of sorts to feel everything so deeply. Sometimes, however, it seems to me that i am not really a human being at all, but like a bird or a beast in human form. I feel so much more at home even in a scrap of garden like the one here, and still more in the meadows when the grass is humming with bees than - at one of the our party congresses.

Life is singing also in the sand crunching under the slow and heavy steps of the guards, when we know how to listen to it.

After every foaming wave of political action a fructifying deposit remains behind from which a thousand stalks of economic struggle with the capitalists keeps their fighting energy alive in every political interval; it forms, so to speak, the permanent fresh reservoir of the strength of the proletarian classes, from which the political fight every renews its strength, and at the same time leads the indefatigable economic sappers of the proletariat at all times, now here and now there, to isolated sharp conflicts, out of which public conflicts on a large scale unexpectedly explode.