Filled with rapture, his soul yearned for freedom, space, vastness. Over him the heavenly dome, full of quiet, shining stars, hung boundlessly. From the zenith to the horizon the still-dim Milky Way stretched its double strand. Night, fresh and quiet, almost unstirring, enveloped the earth. The white towers and golden domes of the church gleamed in the sapphire sky. The luxuriant autumn asleep till morning. The silence of the earth seemed to merge with the silence of the heavens and the mystery of the earth touched the mystery of the stars.

In the realist, faith is not born from miracles, but miracles from faith.

The soul is healed by being with children.

To be acutely conscious is a disease, a real, honest-to-goodness disease.

I have a plan-to go mad.

It's in despair that you find the sharpest pleasures, particularly when you are most acutely aware of the hopelessness of your position.

There is no explaining anything by reasoning and so it is useless to reason.