The world is never quiet, even its silence eternally resounds with the same notes, in vibrations which escape our ears. As for those that we perceive, they carry sounds to us, occasionally a chord, never a melody.

To abandon oneself to principles is really to die - and to die for an impossible love which is the contrary of love.

Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure.

To write is to become disinterested. There is a certain renunciation in art.

Creating is living doubly. The groping, anxious quest of a Proust, his meticulous collecting of flowers, of wallpapers, and of anxieties, signifies nothing else.

Don't wait for the last judgment - it takes place every day.

All great deeds and all great thoughts have a ridiculous beginning. Great works are often born on a street corner or in a restaurant's revolving door.