In default of inexhaustible happiness, eternal suffering would at least give us a destiny. But we do not even have that consolation, and our worst agonies come to an end one day.

The end of their passion consists of loving uselessly at the moment when it is pointless.

We do not know how to eliminate evil, but we do know how to feed some of the hungry and heal some of the infirmed.

No code of ethics and no effort are justifiable a priori in the face of the cruel mathematics that command our condition.

Love cannot accept what it is. Everywhere on earth it cries out against kindness, compassion, intelligence, everything that leads to compromise. Love demands the impossible, the absolute, the sky on fire, inexhaustible springtime, life after death, and death itself transfigured into eternal life.

A man's work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened.

People hasten to judge in order not to be judged themselves.