Memory is not an instrument for exploring the past but its theatre. It is the medium of past experience, as the ground is the medium in which dead cities lie interred.

Boredom is the dream bird that hatches the egg of experience. A rustling in the leaves drives him away.

The idea that happiness could have a share in beauty would be too much of a good thing.

The only way of knowing a person is to love them without hope.

All human knowledge takes the form of interpretation.