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.

We forget that we are all dead men conversing with dead men.

Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.

The art of writing is mysterious, the opinions we hold are ephemeral.

We accept reality so readily - perhaps because we sense that nothing is real.

If I were asked to name the chief event in my life, I should say my father's library.

A system is nothing more than the subordination of all aspects of the universe to any one of such aspects.