One kind of good book should leave you asking: how did the author know that about me?

When Proust urges us to evaluate the world properly, he repeatedly reminds us of the value of modest scenes.

The moment we cry in a film is not when things are sad but when they turn out to be more beautiful than we expected them to be.

In the oasis complex, the thirsty man images he sees water, palm trees, and shade not because he has evidence for the belief, but because he has a need for it. Desperate needs bring about a hallucination of their solution: thirst hallucinates water, the need for love hallucinates a prince or princess. The oasis complex is never a complete delusion: the man in the desert does see something on the horizon. It is just that the palms have withered, the well is dry, and the place is infected with locusts.

It's hard loving those who don't much like themselves: "If you're so great, why would you think I'm so great.

Though it may feel otherwise, enjoying life is no more dangerous than apprehending it with continuous anxiety and gloom.

Unnatural to expect that learning to be happy should be any easier than, say, learning to play the violin or require any less practice.