Every landscape is, as it were, a state of the soul, and whoever penetrates into both is astonished to find how much likeness there is in each detail.

You desire to know the art of living, my friend? It is contained in one phrase: make use of suffering.

Dreams are excursions into the limbo of things, a semi-deliverance from the human prison.

Sympathy is the first condition of criticism; reason and justice presuppose, at their origin, emotion.

We are always making God our accomplice so that we may legalize our own inequities.

I find myself regarding existence as though from beyond the tomb, from another world; all is strange to me; I am, as it were, outside my own body and individuality; I am depersonalized, detached, cut adrift. Is this madness?

In order to see Christianity, one must forget all the Christians.