Suddenly the full long wail of a ship's horn surged through the open window and flooded the dim room—a cry of boundless, dark, demanding grief; pitch-black and glabrous as a whale's back and burdened with all the passions of the tides, the memory of voyages beyond counting, the joys, the humiliations: the sea was screaming.

Men had been living a proud life, having felt no need for the spirit-until Christianity invented it.

For clearly it is impossible to touch eternity with one hand and life with the other.

As usual, it occurred to me that words were the only thing that could possibly save me from this situation. This was a characteristic misunderstanding on my part. When action was needed, I was absorbed in words; for words proceeded with such difficulty from my mouth that I was intent on them and forgot all about action. It seemed to me that actions, which are dazzling, varied things, must always be accompanied by equally dazzling and equally varied words.

Living is merely the chaos of existence.

Possessing by letting go of things was a secret of ownership unknown to youth.

When silence is prolonged over a certain period of time, it takes on new meaning.