Our life dreams the Utopia. Our death achieves the Ideal.[Notre vie rêve l’utopie, notre mort obtient l’idéal.]
Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.
Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments.
Open your eyes, look within. Are you satisfied with the life you’re living?
Only what is living feels a lack.
Only teenagers think boring is bad. Adults, grown men and women who’ve been around the block a few times, know that boring is a gift straight from God. Life has more than enough excitement up its sleeve, ready to hit you with as soon as you’re not looking, without you adding to the drama.
Only in this life you made your own miracles, because God was busy elsewhere.
Only in the fever of creation could she recreate her own lost life.
Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile.
One’s life-story cannot be told with complete veracity. A true autobiography would have to be written in states of mind, emotions, heartbeats, smiles, and tears, not in months and years, or physical events. Life is marked off on the soul-chart by feelings, not by dates.
One must laugh and weep, love, work, enjoy and suffer, in short vibrate as much as possible in all his being.[Il faut rire et pleurer, aimer, travailler, jouir et souffrir, enfin vibrer autant que possible dans toute son étendue.]
One must die to life in order to be utterly a creator.
