Human life is reduced to real suffering, to hell, only when two ages, two cultures and religions overlap.

A magic dwells in each beginning, protecting us, telling us how to live.

Each man carries the vestiges of his birth; the slime and eggshells of his primeval past with him to the end of his days. Some never become human, remaining frog, lizard, ant. Some are human above the waist, fish below.

Was it not his Self, his small, fearful and proud Self, with which he had wrestled for so many years, but which had always conquered him again, which appeared each time again and again, which robbed him of happiness and filled him with fear?

All the books of the world full of thoughts and poems are nothing in comparison to a minute of sobbing, when feeling surges in waves, the soul feels itself profoundly and finds itself. Tears are the melting ice of snow. All angels are close to the crying person.

The bourgeois today burns as heretics and hangs as criminals those to whom he erects monuments tomorrow.

He had loved and he had found himself. Most people love to lose themselves.