There Is No Feeling So Simple That

To Understand Is Nothing, But To Be Understood-that Is The Problem And The Source Of Anguish. The Soul Throbs And Would Have The Other Know-but Can Not And Feels Isolated. Then Come Gestures, Words, Awkward Explanations And Material Symbols For Imponderable Outbursts Of Feeling-and The Soul Despairs.

We Live Counterfeit Lives In Order To Resemble The Idea We First Had Of Ourselves.

When You Have Nothing To Say, Or To Hide, There Is No Need To Be Prudent.

The Sole Art That Suits Me Is That Which, Rising From Unrest, Tends Toward Serenity.

The Young People Who Come To Me In The Hope Of Hearing Me Utter A Few Memorable Maxims Are Quite Disappointed. Aphorisms Are Not My Forte, I Say Nothing But Banalities.... I Listen To Them And They Go Away Delighted.