Every life is, more or less, a ruin among whose debris we have to discover what the person ought to have been.

Whoever has not felt the danger of our times palpitating under his hand, has not really penetrated to the vitals of destiny, he has merely pricked the surface.

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

The real magic wand is the child's own mind.

Life is a terrible conflict, a grandiose and atrocious confluence. Hunting submerges man deliberately in that formidable mystery and therefore contains something of religious rite and emotion in which homage is paid to what is divine, transcendent, and in the laws of Nature.

If the human intellect functions, it is actually in order to solve the problems which the man's inner destiny sets it.

Men play at tragedy because they do not believe in the reality of the tragedy which is actually being staged in the civilised world