Pure logic is the ruin of the spirit.

Mad is the man who is forever gritting his teeth against that granite block, complete and changeless, of the past.

You will have five hundred million little bells, and I shall have five hundred million springs of fresh water.

It is the missed opportunity that counts, and in a love that vainly yearns from behind prison bars you have perchance the love supreme.

Whoever loves above all the approach of love will never know the joy of attaining it.

The job has its grandeurs, yes. There is the exultation of arriving safely after a storm, the joy of gliding down out of the darkness of night or tempest toward a sun-drenched Alicante or Santiago; there is the swelling sense of returning to repossess one's place in life, in the miraculous garden of earth, where are trees and women and, down by the harbor, friendly little bars. When he has throttled his engine and is banking into the airport, leaving the somber cloud masses behind, what pilot does not break into song?

The dignity of the individual demands that he be not reduced to vassalage by the largesse of others.