The steps a man takes from the day of his birth until that of his death trace in time an inconcievable figure. The Divine Mind intuitively grasps that form immediately, as men do a triangle.

In fact I'm in too much of a mental muddle to know where I am - an idealist or not. I'm a mere man of letters, and I do what I can with those subjects.

I know that when I think of myself as being utterly worn out, when I think that somehow I have nothing more to write, then something is happening within me. And, in due course, it bubbles up; it comes to the surface, and then I do my best to listen. But there's nothing mystical about all this. I suppose all writers do the same.

We have a very precise image - an image at times shameless - of what we have lost, but we are ignorant of what may follow or replace it.

Besides, rereading, not reading, is what counts.

The mathematical sciences wield their particular language made of digits and signs, no less subtle than any other.

The worst labyrinth is not that intricate form that can entrap us forever, but a single and precise straight line