There are no trifles in the human story, no trifling leaves on the tree.
The tomb is not a blind alley: it is a thoroughfare. It closes on the twilight. It opens on the dawn.
Love is the only future God offers.
Algebra applies to the clouds.
When two mouths, made sacred by love, draw near to each other to create, it is impossible, that above that ineffable kiss there should not be a thrill in the immense mystery of the stars.
Without at all invalidating what we have just said, we believe that a perpetual remembrance of the tomb is proper for the living. On this point, the priest and the philosopher agree: We must die.