It is the peculiarity of grief to bring out the childish side of man.

Love is reducing the universe to one being.

The aim of art is almost divine: to bring to life again if it is writing history, to create if it is writing poetry.

But alas, if I have not maintained my victory, it is God's fault for not making man and the devil of equal strength.

A bit of mould is a pleiad of flowers; a nebula is an ant-hill of stars.

Can human nature ever be wholly and radically transformed? Can the man whom God made good be made wicked by man? Can the soul be reshaped in its entirety by destiny and made evil because destiny is evil? Can the heart become misshapen and afflicted with ugly, incurable deformities under disproportionate misfortune, like a spinal column bent beneath a too low roof?

No one knows like a woman how to say things which are at once gentle and deep.