I longed to be forgotten in order to be able to complain to myself.

And often he who has chosen the fate of the artist because he felt himself to be different soon realizes that he can maintain neither his art nor his difference unless he admits that he is like the others. The artist forges himself to the others, midway between the beauty he cannot do without and the community he cannot tear himself away from.

Just as all thought, and primarily that of non-signification, signifies something, so there is no art that has no signification.

People don't love each other at our age, Marthe—they please each other, that's all. Later on, when you're old and impotent, you can love someone. At our age, you just think you do. That's all it is.

stupidity has a knack of getting its way; as we should see if we were not always so much wrapped up in ourselves

To lose the touch of flowers and women's hands is the supreme separation.

We come into the world laden with the weight of an infinite necessity.