Dreams seem to be spurred on not by reason but by desire, not by the head but by the heart, and yet what complicated tricks my reason has played sometimes in dreams.

Deprived of meaningful work, men and women lose their reason for existence; they go stark, raving mad.

Hell is the inability to love.

Man is a mystery. It needs to be unravelled, and if you spend your whole life unravelling it, don't say that you've wasted time. I am studying that mystery because I want to be a human being.

I don’t even know what I’m writing, I have no idea, I don’t know anything, and I’m not reading over it, and I’m not correcting my style, and I’m writing just for the sake of writing, just for the sake of writing more to you… My precious, my darling, my dearest!

It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes gradually into quiet tender joy.

Homeopathic doses are perhaps the strongest.