Man is an idea, and a precious small idea once he turns his back on love.

Morality, when formal, devours.

We must learn how to lend ourselves to dreaming when dreams lend themselves to us.

... We need the sweet pain of anticipation to tell us we are really alive.

In the light, the earth remains our first and our last love. Our brothers are breathing under the same sky as we; justice is a living thing. Now is born that strange joy which helps one live and die, and which we shall never again postpone to a later time.

The truth, as the light, makes blind.

For what gives value to travel is fear. It breaks down a kind of inner structure we have. Travel robs us of such refuge. Far from our own people, our own language, stripped of all our props, deprived of our masks (one doesn't know the fare on the streetcars, or anything else), we are completely on the surface of ourselves.