Mathematics Is The Bold Luxury

We Do Not Have Too Much Intellect And Too Little Soul, But Too Little Intellect In Matters Of The Soul.

Life Forms A Surface That Acts As If It Could Not Be Otherwise, But Under Its Skin Things Are Pounding And Pulsing.

One Does What One Is; One Becomes What One Does.

Every Day There Comes A Moment When A Person Lays His Hands In His Lap And All His Busyness Collapses Like Ashes. The Work Accomplished Is, From The Soul's Point Of View, Entirely Imaginary.

Each Person Is A Graveyard Of His Thoughts. They Are Most Beautiful For Us In The Moment Of Their Birth; Later We Can Often Sense A Deep Pain That They Leave Us Indifferent Where Earlier They Enchanted Us.