Author of quotes: Marguerite Yursenar

I hate useless debate, when everyone knows in advance that he will still concede - or, conversely, will never yield to the partner; I love the candid honesty in business conversations because it enables to simplify and quickly move forward.

But, whatever is said, the ties of kinship are very weak when they are not backed closeness; this is particularly clearly see when confronted with cases of inheritance.

To fight fanaticism with common sense seldom wins.

Our big mistake is that we certainly are trying to achieve from a man of such qualities, which he does not have and is not developing in him of what he possesses.

Of all gradually leaving me the joys of one of the most precious, and most natural, is a dream. The man who sleeps little and badly, based on countless pillows, plenty of time to ponder this strange pleasure. Of course, the most beautiful dream is a dream, it represents the addition to love, the wise repose embodied in the two sleeping bodies. But now I took another unique mystery of sleep, eat for him, inevitable and dangerous dip in the evenings, when we are naked, alone and unarmed, into an ocean where everything becomes just another color, density of objects, the rhythm of breathing - and where we often find the dead. Calms only that dream we eventually leave, and we have not changed as a strange prohibition prevents us to carry out dreams shape their images. Or what is that sleep heals us of fatigue, but he resorted to the most radical method of treatment: we seem to at some time cease to exist.

Happiness is always a high work of art: the slightest mistake distorts it, the slightest hesitation kills, disfigures the slightest embarrassment, the slightest nonsense makes you stupid.

The people judging by hearsay, almost always wrong, because all I see from the outside and in the rough form. They not occur that the actions which they seem to be reprehensible, can be as simple and direct, which, in fact, often there are human actions.

... Wisdom, like life itself, is in continuous progress, in constant need to start over in patience.

Under the stars it is easy to give great ideas. Harder to keep them intact in a series of petty everyday life; harder to stay in front of people the same as we are before God.

People never tell the whole truth, but when you have created a habit of something silent, you soon notice that so do all. I got a strange ability to recognize secret defects and weaknesses; my conscience was naked exposed in front of me the conscience of others.

... To exhaust yourself is also a way to samorodina, but overworking the body leads eventually to the exhaustion of the soul. And who knows, Monica, what is better: restless soul or soul sleep?

Others see how we look, how we move, how our lips are born of the word, but his life we see only. Strange: we see it, we wonder what it is, and changing it can't.

I always thought that music should just be silence, the mystery of silence, which tries to Express yourself. Take for example the fountain. Silent water fills the pipe going into them, poured over the edge, and the falling raindrop acquires a sound. I always thought that music should be none other than paralepsis over the edge of the great silence.

In the depths of hopeless impotence is always lurking solace.