This magnificent butterfly finds a little heap of dirt and sits still on it; but man will never on his heap of mud keep still.

Facing it, always facing it, that's the way to get through. Face it.

Words, as is well known, are the great foes of reality.

A man's most open actions have a secret side to them.

The moon had spread over everything a thin layer of silver - over the rank grass, over the mud, upon the wall of matted vegetation standing higher than the wall of a temple, over the great river I could see through a sombre gap glittering, glittering, as it flowed broadly by without a murmur. All this was great, expectant, mute, while the man jabbered about himself.

It occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed any action of mine, would be a mere futility.

The artist in his calling of interpreter creates because he must. He is so much of a voice that, for him, silence is like death