The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.
Because of the infinite quality of love, or its egotism, the intellectual and spiritual physiognomy of the people we love are the least objectively defined for us. We are constantly retouching them to suit our desires and our fears; we do not separate them from us; they are but an immense and vague place where our affections exteriorize themselves.
The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul?
Novels are not bound by the rules of reportage. Far from it. They’re predicated on delivering experience. Of course, they seem to abide by certain basic rules, but these are no more restrictive than the law of gravity is in constraining the variety of living things on the planet. By delivering experience, novels can alter the stance we adopt toward news—not much, I’m sure, but they can make it a little more difficult for us to consign “other people” to our tidy boxes.
Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though I oft have passed them by
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.