Everything is worthwhile if the soul is not small.

What Hells and Purgatories and Heavens I have inside of me! But who sees me do anything that disagrees with life--me, so calm and peaceful?

When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak, and after half an hour I just feel tired. Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial.

Life is what we make of it. Travel is the traveler. What we see isn't what we see but what we are.

But I am not perfect in my way of putting things Because I lack the divine simplicity Of being only what I appear to be.

There are ships sailing to many ports, but not a single one goes where life is not painful.

To know how to think with emotions and to feel with intellect.