I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.
You lose your immortality when you lose your memory.
Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.
For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me.
A cluster of stars palely glowed above us, between the silhouettes of long thin leaves; that vibrant sky seemed as naked as she was under her light frock. I saw her face in the sky, strangely distinct, as if it emitted a faint radiance of its own.
How small the cosmos (a kangaroo's pouch would hold it), how paltry and puny in comparison to human consciousness, to a single individual recollection, and its expression in words!