If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time.

The time at our disposal each day is elastic; the passions we feel dilate it, those that inspire us shrink it, and habit fills it.

It is desire that engenders belief and if we fail as a rule to take this into account, it is because most of the desires that create beliefs end only with our own life.

Masterpieces are no more than the shipwrecked flotsam of great minds.

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

But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.

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