Curiosity is insubordination in its purest form.

There he stood, in the camouflage of sun and shade, disfigured by them and masked by his own nakedness.

Words without experience are meaningless.

One is always at home in one's past.

Here lies the sense of literary creation to portray ordinary objects as they will be reflected in kindly mirrors of future times. . . . To find in objects around us the fragrant tenderness that only posterity will discern . . .

All great novels are great fairy tales.

It is certainly not then-not in dreams- but when one is wide awake, at moments of robust joy and achievement, on the highest terrace of consciousness, that mortality has a chance to peer beyond its own limits, from the mast, from the past and its castle tower. And although nothing much can be seen through the mist, there is somehow the blissful feeling that one is looking in the right direction.