The nimble shuttles of the years weave links between those of our memories which seem at first most independent of each other,
The scum of universal fatuousness which the war left in its wake
But it is sometimes just at the moment when we think that everything is lost that the intimation arrives which may save us; one has knocked at all the doors which lead nowhere, and then one stumbles without knowing it on the only door through which one can enter— which one might have sought in vain for a hundred years— and it opens of its own accord.
The true paradises are the paradises that we have lost.
Imagination, the only organ that I possess for the enjoyment of beauty,
That ineluctable law which ordains that we can only imagine what is absent.