For a moment I had a strange intuition that just this, and in a real, profound sense, is life; and perhaps happiness even - love with a mixture of sadness, reverence, and silent knowledge.

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We are forlorn like children, and experienced like old men, we are crude and sorrowful and superficial—I believe we are lost.

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But probably that's the way of the world - when we have finally learned something we're too old to apply it - and so it goes, wave after wave, generation after generation. No one learns anything at all from anyone else.

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Mirrors are there when we are and yet they never give anything back to us but our own image. Never, never shall we know what they are when they are alone or what is behind them.

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We have our dreams because without them we could not bear the truth.

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Strange how complicated we can make things just to avoid showing what we feel!

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Life did not intend to make us perfect. Whoever is perfect belongs in a museum.

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Everyone saves someone at least once. Just as he kills someone at least once. Even though he may not know it.

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Sometimes I used to think that one day i should wake up, and all that had been would be over. forgotten, sunk, drowned. Nothing was sure - not even memory.

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It's only terrible to have nothing to wait for.

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