He thought that the rose was to be found in its own eternity and not in his words; and that we may mention or allude to a thing, but not express it.

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.

We (the indivisible divinity that works in us) have dreamed the world. We have dreamed it resistant, mysterious, visible, ubiquitous in space and firm in time, but we have allowed slight, and eternal, bits of the irrational to form part of its architecture so as to know that it is false.

All theories are legitimate, no matter. What matters is what you do with them.

He thought that the rose was to be found in its own eternity and not in his words; and that we may mention or allude to a thing, but not express it.

A labyrinth of symbols... An invisible labyrinth of time.

For myth is at the beginning of literature, and also at its end.