The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.

I dreamt -- marvellous error! -- that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.

Beyond living and dreaming there is something more important: waking up.

At the very smallest wheel of our reasoning it is possible for a handful of questions to break the bank of our answers.

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

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

Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path. . .