Is not parody the eternal lot of man?

The more vast the amount of time we've left behind us, the more irresistible is the voice calling us to return to it.

Pain doesn't listen to reason, it has it's own reason, which is not reasonable

There is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one's own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels for someone, pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echos.

Living, there is no happiness in that. Living: carrying one’s painful self through the world. But being, being is happiness. Being: Becoming a fountain, a fountain on which the universe falls like warm rain.

At the end of true love is death, and only the love that ends in death is love.

She was experiencing the same odd happiness and odd sadness as then. The sadness meant: We are at the last station. The happiness meant: We are together. The sadness was form, the happiness content. Happiness filled the space of sadness.