The folly of mistaking oneself for an oracle is built right into us.

It would be impossible to "love" anyone or anything one knew completely. Love is directed towards what lies hidden in its object.

Oh, hasten not this loving act, Rapture where self and not-self meet: My life has been the awaiting you, Your footfall was my own heart's beat.

Thanks to photography, the eye grew accustomed to anticipate what it should see and to see it; and it learned not to see nonexistent things which, hitherto, it had seen so clearly.

Everything changes but the avant-garde.

Growing nations should remember that, in nature, no tree, though placed in the best conditions of light, soil, and plot, can continue to grow and spread indefinitely.

Fidelity to meaning alone in translation is a kind of betrayal.