Illusions are art, for the feeling person, and it is by art that we live, if we do.

Memory must be patchy; what is more alarming is its face-savingness. Something in one shrinks from catching it out - unique to oneself, one's own, one's claim to identity, it implicates one's identity in its fibbing.

Jealousy is no more than feeling alone against smiling enemies.

Proust has pointed out that the predisposition to love creates its own objects; is this not also true of fear?

Nothing can happen nowhere. The locale of the happening always colours the happening, and often, to a degree, shapes it.

Sacrificers are not the ones to pity. The ones to pity are those they sacrifice.

Silences can be as different as sounds.