Science is for those who learn; poetry, for those who know.

Poetry is the exquisite expression of exquisite expressions.

Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.

Whenever the poetry of myth is interpreted as biography, history, or science, it is killed. The living images become only remote facts of a distant time or place. Furthermore, it is never difficult to demonstrate that as science and history, mythology is absurd.

Solitude vivifies; isolation kills.

We call that person who has lost his father, an orphan; and a widower that man who has lost his wife. But that man who has known the immense unhappiness of losing a friend, by what name do we call him? Here every language is silent and holds its peace in impotence.