a river called time.

Transeuntes eternos por nós mesmos, não há paisagem senão o que somos. Nada possuímos, porque nem a nós possuímos. Nada temos porque nada somos Que mãos estenderei para o universo? O universo não é meu: sou eu.

There are, indeed, things that cannot be put into words. They make themselves manifest. They are what is mystical.

To me, the whole world is a homeland, like the sea to fish.

The senator had only one argument in his favor: his feeling. When the heart speaks, the mind finds it indecent to object. In the realm of kitsch, the dictatorship of the heart reigns supreme.

We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.

"I see the sun, and if I don’t see the sun, I know it’s there. And there’s a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there."

Some gardeners hate the weeds that spoil their design – the ugliness in the midst of beauty, litter in the midst of a serene order. Some others are quite unemotional about them: just a problem to be solved, an extra job to be done. Not that it makes a difference to the weeds; both gardeners exterminate them. If asked or given a chance to pause and ponder, both would agree; weeds must die not so much because of what they are, as because of what the beautiful, orderly garden should be. Modern culture is a garden culture. It defines itself as the design for an ideal life and a perfect arrangement of human conditions.