I enter the world called real as one enters a mist.

Our life is a book that writes itself and whose principal themes sometimes escape us. We are like characters in a novel who do not always understand what the author wants of them.

Thoughts fly and words go on foot. Therein lies all the drama of a writer.

Yesterday, happiness came in suddenly, as it used to, and remained for a moment in the great, dark, silent drawing room.

You cannot imagine at all how much you interest God; He is interested in you as if there were no one else on earth.

Perhaps the greatest consolation of the oppressed is to consider themselves superior to their tyrants.

Let us hope that good authors who are bad Christians will find salvation through the books they write.