“I tried to talk myself into the state of innocence in which children love their parents. But love of our parents is the only love for which we are not responsible. …And perhaps we are responsible even for the love we feel for our parents.”

What a sad story, I thought for so long. Not that I now think it was happy. But I think it is true, and thus the question of whether it is sad or happy has no meaning whatever.

When we open ourselves you yourself to me and I myself to you, when we submerge you into me and I into you when we vanish into me you and into you I Then am I me and you are you.

why does what was beautiful shatter in hindsight because it concealed dark truths?

What is law? Is it what is on the books, or what is actually enacted and obeyed in a society? Or is law what must be enacted and obeyed, whether or not it is on the books, if things are to go right?

There’s no need to talk about it, because the truth of what one says lies in what one does.

I took all the blame. I admitted mistakes I hadn’t made, intentions I’d never had. Whenever she turned cold and hard, I begged her to be good to me again, to forgive me and love me.

Sometimes the memory of happiness cannot stay true because it ended unhappily.

I asked her about life, and it was as if she rummaged around in a dusty chest to get me the answers.

Desires, memories, fears, passions form labyrinths in which we lose and find and then lose ourselves again.

Bravery is good when the cause is good.

Or is there no such thing as ‘too late’? Is there only ‘late’ and is ‘late’ always better than ‘never’? I don’t know.

I did not know that children think the hard questions they ask are easy and thus expect easy answers to them, and that they are disappointed when they get cautious, complex answers.

When an airplane’s engines fail, it is not the end of the flight.

She was struggling, as she always had struggled, not to show what she could do but to hide what she couldn’t do. A life made up of advances that were actually frantic retreats and victories that were concealed defeats.

As an author, you can’t expect a movie to be an illustration of the book. If that’s what you hope for, you shouldn’t sell the rights.

She was struggling, as she always had struggled, not to show what she could do but to hide what she couldn’t do. A life made up of advances that were actually frantic retreats and victories that were concealed defeats.

We’re born, we live a little while, we die. A spider’s life can’t help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that.

We are able to learn from a failure, but perhaps not much from a success!

We’re tired of seeing just a few people able to be individualists. We’re tired of always deferring hope till the next generation.

I need not instruct you of my belief: Time gives all and takes all away ; everything changes but nothing perishes ;

I get a little nauseated, perhaps, when I hear the phrase ‘freedom of the press’ used as freely as it is, knowing that a large part of our proprietorial press is not free at all.

Then they will see that, perhaps, they too have some of the same fault in themselves – although perhaps it does not come out in the same way – and then they must try to conquer that fault.

Beauty means this to one person, perhaps, and that to the other. And yet when any one of us has seen or heard or read that which to us is beautiful.

But it may be that the way of life that he has chosen for himself and the peculiar strength and sweetness of his character may have an ever-growing influence over his fellow men so that, long after his death perhaps, it may be realized that there lived in this age a very remarkable creature.