The little word is has its tragedies: it marries and identifies different things with the greatest innocence; and yet no two are ever identical, and if therein lies the charm of wedding them and calling them one, therein too lies the danger.

Facts are all accidents. They all might have been different. They all may become different. They all may collapse altogether.

In each person I catch the fleeting suggestion of something beautiful and swear eternal friendship with that.

Our dignity is not in what we do, but what we understand.

The fact of having been born is a bad augury for immortality.

There is a kind of courtesy in skepticism. It would be an offense against polite conventions to press our doubts too far.

The dreamer can know no truth, not even about his dream, except by awaking out of it.