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

The wind, one brilliant day, called to my soul with an odor of jasmine. "In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses." "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead." "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain." the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?

Death is something we don't have to fear, since as long as we exist death doesn't and when it does we don't.

Man's passion for truth is such that he will welcome the bitterest of all postulates so long as it strikes him as true.

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.

No one can shed light on vices he does not have or afflictions he has ever experienced.

The truly erotic sensibility, in evoking the image of woman, never omits to clothe it. The robing and disrobing: that is the true traffic of love.