[T]he truth is that fullness of soul can sometimes overflow in utter vapidity of language, for none of us can ever express the exact measure of his needs or his thoughts or his sorrows; and human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.

One must laugh and weep, love, work, enjoy and suffer, in short vibrate as much as possible in all his being.

I have the handicap of being born with a special language to which I alone have the key.

And indeed, what is better than to sit by one's fireside in the evening with a book, while the wind beats against the window and the lamp is buring?

Abstraction can provide stumbling blocks for people of strange intelligence.

Mediocrity cherishes rules; as for me, I hate them; I feel for them and for every restriction, corporation, caste, hierarchy, level, herd, a loathing which fills my soul, and it is in this respect perhaps that I understand martyrdom.

Me and my books in the same apartment, like a gherkin in its vinegar.