The rebel can never find peace. He knows what is good and, despite himself, does evil. The value which supports him is never given to him once and for all - he must fight to uphold it, unceasingly.

The modern mind is in complete disarray. Knowledge has stretched itself to the point where neither the world nor our intelligence can find any foot-hold. It is a fact that we are suffering from nihilism.

There is only one class of men, the privileged class

A novel is never anything but a philosophy expressed in images. And in a good novel the philosophy has disappeared into the images.

Great ideas, it has been said, come into the world as gently as doves. Perhaps then, if we listen attentively, we shall hear amid the uproar of empires and nations, a faint flutter of wings, the gentle stirring of life and hope. Some will say that this hope lies in a nation; others in a man. I believe rather that it is awakened, revived, nourished, by millions of solitary individuals whose and works every day negate frontiers and the crudest implications of history.

We used to wonder where war lived, what it was that made it so vile. And now we realize that we know where it lives... inside ourselves.

It is necessary to fall in love... if only to provide an alibi for all the random despair you are going to feel anyway.