Sometimes, when I wake up at night, I feel invisible hands weaving my destiny.

The world belongs to who doesn't feel. The primary condition to be a practical man is the absence of sensitivity.

For who expects nothing, all that comes is grateful

Art consists in making others feel what we feel.

What's given, in fact, always depends on the person or thing it's given to. A minor incident in the street brings the cook to the door and entertains him more than I would be entertained by contemplating the most original idea, by reading the greatest book, or by having the most gratifying of useless dreams. If life is basically monotony, he has escaped it more than I. And he escapes it more easily than I. The truth isn't with him or with me, because it isn't with anyone, but happiness does belong to him.

I look at myself but I'm missing. I know myself: it’s not me.

Isn't joyful or painful this pain in which I rejoice