Man would be "otherwise." That's the essence of the specifically human.

Under all that we think, lives all we believe, like the ultimate veil of our spirits

The great philosophers are poets who believe in the reality of their poems.

My soul is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches, its eyes wide open far-off things, and listens at the shores of the great silence.

And to walk through life in dreams out of love for the hand that guides us.

Wherever learning breeds specialists, the sum of human culture is enhanced thereby. That is the illusion and consolation of specialists.

Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt - marvellous error! - That it was God I had here inside my heart.