— Él me hizo un hombre nuevo, un verdadero Lázaro, un resucitado — me decía — . Él me dio fe. — ¿Fe? — le interrumpía yo. — Sí, fe, fe en el consuelo… - Miguel de Unamuno

Sólo a solas se sentía él; sólo a solas podía decirse a sí mismo, tal vez para convencerse, ¡yo soy yo!; ante los demás, metido en la muchedumbre atareada o distraída, no se sentía a sí mismo.

"The bitterest sorrow that man can know is to aspire to do much and to achieve nothing"… so Herodotus relates that a Persian said to a Theban at a banquet (book ix., chap. xvi.). And it is true. With knowledge and desire we can embrace everything , or almost everything; with the will nothing, or almost nothing. And contemplation is not happiness — no! not if this contemplation implies impotence. And out of this collision between our knowledge and our power pity arises.

All of this that is happening to me, and happening to others about me, is it reality or is it fiction? May not all of it perhaps be a dream of God, or of whomever it may be, which will vanish as soon as He wakes? And therefore when we pray to Him, and cause canticles and hymns to rise to Him, is it not that we may lull Him to sleep, rocking the cradle of His dreams? Is not the whole liturgy, of all religions, only a way perhaps of soothing God in His dreams, so that He shall not wake and cease to dream us?