I have no memory for things I have learned, nor things I have read, nor things experienced or heard, neither for people nor events; I feel that I have experienced nothing, learned nothing, that I actually know less than the average schoolboy, and that what I do know is superficial, and that every second question is beyond me. I am incapable of thinking deliberately; my thoughts run into a wall. I can grasp the essence of things in isolation, but I am quite incapable of coherent, unbroken thinking. I can't even tell a story properly; in fact, I can scarcely talk.

The Messiah will only come when he is no longer needed.

We are separated from God on two sides; the Fall separates us from Him, the Tree of Life separates Him from us.

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

All human errors are impatience, a premature breaking off of methodical procedure, an apparent fencing-in of what is apparently at issue.

A book must be the ax for the frozen sea within us.

The door could not be heard slamming; they had probably left it open, as is the custom in homes where a great misfortune has occurred.