Memory... is an internal rumor.

To me, it seems a dreadful indignity to have a soul controlled by geography.

The degree in which a poet's imagination dominates reality is, in the end, the exact measure of his importance and dignity.

Time is like an enterprising manager always bent on staging some new and surprising production, without knowing very well what it will be.

An operation that eventually kills may be technically successful, and the man may die cured; and so a description of religion thatshowed it to be madness might first show how real and warm it was, so that if it perished, at least it would perish understood.

To be happy you must have taken the measure of your powers, tasted the fruits of your passion, and learned your place in the world.

He thinks he believes only what he sees, but he is much better at believing than at seeing.