So the crew fly on with no thought that they are in motion. Like night over the sea, they are very far from the earth, from towns, from trees. The clock ticks on. The dials, the radio lamps, the various hands and needles go though their invisible alchemy. . . . and when the hour is at hand the pilot may glue his forehead to the window with perfect assurance. Out of oblivion the gold has been smelted: there it gleams in the lights of the airport.

One only really sees with the heart.

And at night I love to listen to the stars. It is like five hundred million little bells.

Behind all seen things lies something vaster; everything is but a path, a portal or a window opening on something other than iteself.

And that heart which was a wild garden was given to him who only loved trim lawns. And the imbecile carried the princess into slavery.

If it is true that wars are won by believers, it is also true that peace treaties are sometimes signed by businessmen.

Pure logic is the ruin of the spirit.