I had become, with the approach of night, once more aware of loneliness and time - those two companions without whom no journey can yield us anything.

Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?

An idea is like a rare bird which cannot be seen. What one sees is the trembling of the branch it has just left.

They flower spontaneously out of the demands of our natures - and the best of them lead us not only outward in space, but inward as well.

Truth is a matter of direct apprehension-you can't climb a ladder of mental concepts to it.

Art—the meaning of the pattern of our common actions in reality. The cloth-of-gold that hides behind the sackcloth of reality, forced out by the pain of human memory.

Truth is what most contradicts itself.