To live for the moment: it sounds so right and so beautiful. But the more I want to, the less I understand what it means.

Isn't it true that it's not people who meet, but rather the shadows cast by their imaginations?

So, the fear of death might be described as the fear of not being able to become whom one had planned to be.

Given that we can live only a small part of what there is in us -- what happens with the rest?

We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.

Kitsch is the most pernicious of all prisons. The bars are covered with the gold of simplistic, unreal feelings, so that you take them for the pillars of a palace.

But when we set out to understand somebody’s inside? Is that a trip that ever ends? Is the soul a place of facts? Or are the alleged facts only the deceptive shadows of our stories?