It is the tragedy of other people that they are to us merely showcases for the very perishable collections of our own mind.

Happiness serves hardly any other purpose than to make unhappiness possible.

Love is not vain because it is frustrated, but because it is fulfilled. The people we love turn to ashes when we posess them.

Now are the woods all black, But still the sky is blue.

When we are in love, our love is too big a thing for us to be able altogether to contain it within ourselves. It radiates towards the loved one, finds there a surface which arrests it, forcing it to return to its starting-point, and it is this repercussion of our own feeling which we call the other's feelings and which charms us more then than on its outward journey because we do not recognise it as having originated in ourselves.

My destination is no longer a place, rather a new way of seeing.

In a language known to us, we have substituted the opacity of the sounds with the transparence of the ideas. But a language we donot know is a closed place in which the one we love can deceive us, making us, locked outside and convulsed in our impotence, incapable of seeing or preventing anything.