Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar.
What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?
Man’s passion for truth is such that he will welcome the bitterest of all postulates so long as it strikes him as true.
The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.
There are a lot of doubts over the size and effect of new competitors in the cellular sector.
All our efforts must tend towards light.
Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt – marvellous error! – That it was God I had here inside my heart.
My philosophy is fundamentally sad, but I’m not a sad man, and I don’t believe I sadden anyone else.
Wherever learning breeds specialists, the sum of human culture is enhanced thereby. That is the illusion and consolation of specialists.
The great philosophers are poets who believe in the reality of their poems.
There is no one so bound to his own face that he does not cherish the hope of presenting another to the world.
Mankind owns four things that are no good at sea: rudder, anchor, oars and the fear of going down.
By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind sees the path.
In order to write poetry, you must first invent a poet who will write it.
Hell is the bloodcurdling mansion of time, in whose profoundest circle Satan himself waits, winding a gargantuan watch in his hand.
Life is the path you beat while you walk it.
Life is the path you beat while you walk it. It’s the walking that beats the path. It is not the path that makes the walk.
Walk through life in dreams out of love of the hand that leads us.
Wayfarer, the only way is your footsteps, there is no other. Wayfarer, there is no way, you make the way as you go. As you go, you make the way and stopping to look behind, you see the path that your feet will never travel again. Wayfarer, there is no way- Only foam trails to the sea.
At the very smallest wheel of our reasoning it is possible for a handful of questions to break the bank of our answers.
The only living language is the language in which we think and have our being.