Love resembles a tree: it bends under its own weight, deeply rooted in our being and sometimes turns green in the ruins of a heart.

Men like me are impossible until the day when they become necessary.

Those who always pray are necessary to those who never pray.

Sacrificing the earth for paradise is giving up the substance for the shadow.

Wherever the Turkish hoof trods, no grass grows.

What makes night within us may leave stars.

These Greek capitals, black with age, and quite deeply graven in the stone, with I know not what signs peculiar to Gothic calligraphy imprinted upon their forms and upon their attitudes, as though with the purpose of revealing that it had been a hand of the Middle Ages which had inscribed them there, and especially the fatal and melancholy meaning contained in them, struck the author deeply.