A cathedral, a wave of a storm, a dancer's leap, never turn out to be as high as we had hoped.

Love is a reciprocal torture.

The only paradise is paradise lost.

It is not because other people are dead that our affection for them grows faint, it is because we ourselves are dying.

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

So we don't believe that life is beautiful because we don't recall it but if we get a whiff of a long-forgotten smell we are suddenly intoxicated and similarly we think we no longer love the dead because we don't remember them but if by chance we come across an old glove we burst into tears.

One becomes moral as soon as one is unhappy.