We do not live to think, but, on the contrary, we think in order that we may succeed in surviving.

Life is the external text, the burning bush by the edge of the path from which God speaks.

The type of human being we prefer reveals the contours of our heart.

There are people who so arrange their lives that they feed themselves only on side dishes.

I am myself and what is around me, and if I do not save it, it shall not save me.

We distinguish the excellent man from the common man by saying that the former is the one who makes great demands on himself, and the latter who makes no demands on himself.

The poet begins where the man ends. The man's lot is to live his human life, the poet's to invent what is nonexistent.