Perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us yesterday, seperate, in the evening.

Live your questions now, and perhaps even without knowing it, you will live along some distant day into your answers.

I live not in dreams but in contemplation of a reality that is perhaps the future.

Perhaps the most significant moral characteristic of a nation is its hypocrisy.

Do not be too quick to condemn the man who no longer believes in God: for it is perhaps your own coldness and avarice and mediocrity and materialism and selfishness that have chilled his faith

Perhaps the turning point in one’s life is realizing that to be treated like a victim is not necessarily to become one

Perhaps I am stronger than I think

Perhaps I know best why it is man alone who laughs; he alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter.

It is perhaps a more fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be born a millionaire.

Our freedom to doubt was born out of a struggle against authority in the early days of science. It was a very deep and strong struggle: permit us to question – to doubt – to not be sure. I think that it is important that we do not forget this struggle and thus perhaps lose what we have gained.

The Dutch customs once thought my pictures were photos. Where on earth did they think I could have photographed my subjects? In Hell, perhaps?

A woman who doesn’t wear perfume has no future

Perhaps the new dawn will come from this horizon, from the East where the sun rises; and then, unvanquished Man will retrace his path of conquest, despite all barriers, to win back his lost heritage.

Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection.

We may, perhaps, imagine that the creation was finished long ago. But that would be quite wrong. It continues still more magnificently, and at the highest levels of the world.

Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions.

You’ve done the bourgeois thing, perhaps, but let’s not call that love.

There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we believe we left without having lived them, those we spent with a favorite book.

Perhaps it is not-being that is the true state, and all our dream of life is inexistent.

All our interior world is reality, and that, perhaps, more so than our apparent world.

But perhaps my art is the art of a lunatic, I thought, mere glittering quicksilver, a blue soul breaking in upon my pictures.