The soul is a very perfect judge of her own motions, if your mind doesn't dictate to her.

Literary criticism can be no more than a reasoned account of the feeling produced upon the critic by the book he is criticising.

No absolute is going to make the lion lie down with the lamb: unless the lamb is inside.

At the back of my life's horizon, where the dreamings of past lives crowd.

When one jumps over the edge, one is bound to land somewhere.

Why were we driven out of Paradise? Why did we fall into this gnawing disease of unappeasable dissatisfaction? Not because we sinned. Ah, no. All the animals in Paradise enjoyed the sensual passion of coition. Not because we sinned. But because we got sex into our head.

I should like [people] to like the purely individual thing in themselves, which makes them act in singleness. and They only like to do the collective thing.