There is so much stubborn hope in the human heart.

Only it takes time to be happy. A lot of time. Happiness, too, is a long patience.

My life was lucky so that I met, I loved (and disappointed) only outstanding people.

From the evening breeze to this hand on my shoulder, everything has its truth.

The mind's deepest desire, even in its most elaborate operations, parallels man's unconscious feeling in the face of his universe: it is an insistence upon familiarity, an appetite for clarity.

Old married people look so much alike that they have the same number of hairs in their ears.

Great ideas, it has been said, come into the world as gently as doves. Perhaps then, if we listen attentively, we shall hear amid the uproar of empires and nations, a faint flutter of wings, the gentle stirring of life and hope. Some will say that this hope lies in a nation; others in a man. I believe rather that it is awakened, revived, nourished, by millions of solitary individuals whose and works every day negate frontiers and the crudest implications of history.