Perhaps I know best why it is man alone who laughs; he alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter.
Perhaps I know best why it is man alone who laughs; he alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter.
Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe.
Death is the king of this world: ‘Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.
Everything human is pathetic. The secret source of humor itself is not joy but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven.
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