She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes.

Brute force crushes many plants. Yet the plants rise again. The Pyramids will not last a moment compared with the daisy. And before Buddha or Jesus spoke the nightingale sang, and long after the words of Jesus and Buddha are gone into oblivion the nightingale still will sing. Because it is neither preaching nor commanding nor urging. It is just singing. And in the beginning it was not a Word, but a chirrup.

The human being is a most curious creature. He thinks he has got one soul, and he has got dozens.

I can never decide whether my dreams are the result of my thoughts, or my thoughts the result of my dreams.

When each thing is unique in itself, there can be no comparison made.... There is only this strange recognition of present otherness.

Poe tried alcohol, and any drug he could lay his hands on. He also tried any human being he could lay his hands on.

A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it.