Who has the skill to make a narrow, obstinate human being aware of others' far-off grief and joy, to make him understand dimensions and delusions he himself has never lived through? Propaganda, coercion, and scientific proofs are powerless. But happily, in our world there is a way. It is art, and it is literature.

History is too slow for our life, for our hearts.

If so far we have been unable to see clearly or to reflect the eternal lineaments of truth, is it not because we too are still moving towards some end-because we are still alive?

The Universe has as many different centers as there are living beings in it.

If it goes well with you, then all is well.

... but it is human to be outraged by injustice, even to the point of courting destruction!

We didn't love freedom enough.