Only the sea, murmurous behind the dingy checkerboard of houses, told of the unrest, the precariousness, of all things in this world.

No doubt our love was still there, but quite simply it was unusable, heavy to carry, inert inside of us, sterile as crime or condemnation. It was no longer anything except a patience with no future and a stubborn wait.

These are facts the heart can feel; yet they call for careful study before they become clear to the intellect.

Everything is true, and nothing is true!

he's incapable of suffering for a long time, or being happy for a long time. Which means that he's incapable of anything really worth while.

The world I live in is loathsome to me, but I feel one with the men who suffer in it

In fact, it comes to this: nobody is capable of really thinking about anyone, even in the worst calamity. For really to think about someone means thinking about that person every minute of the day, without letting one’s thoughts be diverted by anything- by meals, by a fly that settles on one’s cheek, by household duties, or by a sudden itch somewhere. But there are always flies and itches. That’s why life is difficult to live.