I find very reasonable the Celtic belief that the souls of our dearly departed are trapped in some inferior being, in an animal, aplant, an inanimate object, indeed lost to us until the day, which for some never arrives, when we find that we pass near the tree, or come to possess the object which is their prison. Then they quiver, call us, and as soon as we have recognized them, the spell is broken. Freed by us, they have vanquished death and return to live with us.

Often it is just lack of imagination that keeps a man from suffering very much.

Lies are essential to humanity.

For, just as in the beginning it is formed by desire, so afterwards love is kept in existence only by painful anxiety.

Our desires cut across one another, and in this confused existence it is rare for happiness to coincide with the desire that clamoured for it.

What an abyss of uncertainty, whenever the mind feels overtaken by itself; when it, the seeker, is at the same time the dark region through which it must go seeking and where all its equipment will avail it nothing. Seek? More than that: create. It is face to face with something which does not yet exist, which it alone can make actual, which it alone can bring into the light of day.

The only possible paradises are those we have lost