There is a part of everything which is unexplored, because we are accustomed to using our eyes only in association with the memory of what people bef… - Guy de Maupassant

...A strange art – music – the most poetic and precise of all the arts, vague as a dream and precise as algebra.

We love our mother unknowingly, and only realize how deep-rooted that love is at the ultimate separation.

For a number of years he had lived, eaten, laughed, loved, hoped, like everyone else. And for him it was over, over for good. A life! A few days, and the nothing! You're born, you grow up, you're happy, you wait, then you die. Goodbye! Man or woman, you'll never return to this earth! And yet each of us bears within him the fierce, unrealizable longing for eternity, each of us is a kind of universe within the universe, and each of us soon vanishes completely into the dunghill of new organisms. Plants, animals, men, stars, worlds, everything quickens, then dies, in order to transform itself. And nothing ever returns, whether insect, man, or planet!