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"These words we exchange," he thought, "they're like a mass of building blocks lying scattered over a construction site in the dead of night. With the immense, starry sky spread out about them and its awful pressure of silence, what else can they do but be mute?"

“Dreams, memories, the sacred—they are all alike in that they are beyond our grasp. Once we are even marginally separated from what we can touch,the object is sanctified; it acquires the beauty of the unattainable,the quality of the miraculous. Everything,really, has this quality of sacredness, but we can desecrate it at a touch. How strange man is! His touch defiles and yet he contains the source of miracles.”