In a certain sense you deny the existence of this world. You explain life as a state of rest, a state of rest in motion.

. . . The books we need are the kind that act upon us like a misfortune, that make us suffer like the death of someone we love more than ourselves, that make us feel as though we were on the verge of suicide, or lost in a forest remote from all human habitation-a book should serve as an axe for the frozen sea within us.

It is only our conception of time that makes us call the Last Judgement by this name. It is, in fact, a kind of martial law.

I can't feel a thing; All mournful petal storms are dancing inside the very private spring of my head.

There is a goal but no way; what we call the way is mere wavering.

Many a book is like a key to unknown chambers within the castle of one’s own self.

It's impossible to defend oneself in the absence of goodwill