“در زندگي آنچه تحمل پذير نيست، رنجهايي است كه ديگران ميكشند و در ظاهر علتي ندارد‌”

“مرگ خيلي آسان مي تواند الان به سراغ م بياد، اما من تا مي توانم زندگي كنم نبايد به پيشواز مرگ بروم. البته اگر يك وقتي ناچار با مرگ روبرو شوم -كه مي شوم- مهم نيست. مهم اين است كه زندگي يا مرگ من، چه اثري در زندگي ديگران داشته باشد”

“He died last year. He had endured that life for six years. He was found one morning on the mountainside lying quite peacefully as though he had died in his sleep. From where he lay he had been able to see those two great rocks called the Faraglioni which stand out of the sea. It was full moon and he must have gone to see them by moonlight. Perhaps he died of the beauty of that sight.”

“مردم به اين دليل عشق مي ورزند كه غمگين اند؛ به اين دليل در جست و جوي ديگري اند كه تنها هستند و عشق فقط زماني امكان پذير است كه تو تنها نباشي، بلكه در يگانگي باشي؛ با خودت قهر نباشي، بلكه با خودت در شيفتگي و سرمستي باشي”

“آنچه در زندگی تحمل نا پذیز است بودن نیست بلکه خود بودن است.”

“He was always seeking for a meaning in life, and here it seemed to him that a meaning was offered; but it was obscure and vague . . . He saw what looked like the truth as by flashes of lightening on a dark, stormy night you might see a mountain range. He seemed to see that a man need not leave his life to chance, but that his will was powerful; he seemed to see that self-control might be as passionate and as active as the surrender to passion; he seemed to see that the inward life might be as manifold, as varied, as rich with experience, as the life of one who conquered realms and explored unknown lands.”

“He did not know how wide a country, arid and precipitous, must be crossed before the traveller through life comes to an acceptance of reality. It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life. The strange thing is that each one who has gone through that bitter disillusionment adds to it in his turn, unconsciously, by the power within him which is stronger than himself.”