Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.
Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.
Our memory is like a shop in the window of which is exposed now one, now another photograph of the same person. And as a rule the most recent exhibit remains for some time the only one to be seen.
Time, which changes people, does not alter the image we have retained of them.
When, from a long distant past, nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still, alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised for a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment, amid the ruins of all the rest and bear unfaltering ... the vast structure of recollection.
If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time.
If, I can someday see M. Claude Monet's garden, I feel sure that I shall see something that is not so much a garden of flowers as of colours and tones, less an oldfashioned flower garden than a colour garden, so to speak, one that achieves an effect not entirely nature's, because it was planted so that only the flowers with matching colours will bloom at the same time, harmonized in an infinite stretch of blue or pink.
I had come in time to learn that it was a mistake to smile a friendly smile when somebody made a fool of me.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories