Being a sick man is like being a log caught in a stream, Gilles. All the straws gather around it.

for ... austere and gracious allegory, as for so much of its mysticism and its chivalry, its ardours and its endurances, the world is in debt to Spain.

... was there no one over thirty-five who had not some secret agony, some white-faced fear? Half one's life one walked carelessly, certain that some day one would have one's heart's desire: and for the rest of it, one either goes empty, or walks carrying a full cup, afraid of every step.

Shipwreck in youth is sorrowful enough, but one looks for storms at the spring equinox. Yet it is the September equinox that drowns.

But what was the desire of the flesh beside the desire of the mind?

Truth has as many coats as an onion ... and each one of them hollow when you peel it off.

Being a sick man is like being a log caught in a stream, Gilles. All the straws gather around it.