“In vain we chisel, as best we can, the mysterious block of which our life is made, the black vein of destiny reappears continuously.”

“Though we chisel away as best we can at the mysterious block from which our life is made, the black vein of destiny continually reappears.”

“Carve as we will the mysterious block of which our life is made, the black vein of destiny constantly reappears in it.”

“Do what we may to shape the mysterious stuff of which our lives are composed, the dark threads of our destiny will always re-emerge.”

“The terrible shock of his sentence had in some way broken that wall which separates us from the mystery of things beyond and which we call life.”

“To travel is to be born and to die at every instant; perhaps, in the vaguest region of his mind, he did make comparisons between the shifting horizon and our human existence: all the things of life are perpetually fleeing before us; the dark and bright intervals are intermingled; after a dazzling moment, an eclipse; we look, we hasten, we stretch out our hands to grasp what is passing; each event is a turn in the road, and, all at once, we are old; we feel a shock; all is black; we distinguish an obscure door; the gloomy horse of life, which has been drawing us halts, and we see a veiled and unknown person unharnessing amid the shadows.”

“Should we continue to look upwards? Is the light we can see in the sky one of those which will presently be extinguished? The ideal is terrifying to behold... brilliant but threatened on all sides by the dark forces that surround it: nevertheless, no more in danger than a star in the jaws of the clouds.”