Never stop writing because you have run out of ideas.
The more circumspectly you delay writing down an idea, the more maturely developed it will be on surrendering itself.
The work of memory collapses time.
In the fields with which we are concerned, knowledge comes only in flashes. The text is the thunder rolling long afterward.
Our image of happiness is indissolubly bound up with the image of the past.
Each morning the day lies like a fresh shirt on our bed; this incomparably fine, incomparably tightly woven tissue of pure prediction fits us perfectly. The happiness of the next twenty-four hours depends on our ability, on waking, to pick it up.