In order to understand the world, one has to turn away from it on occasion.

Only it takes time to be happy. A lot of time. Happiness, too, is a long patience.

In the world there is, parallel to the force of death and constraint, an enormous force of persuasion that is called culture.

A sub-clerk in the post-office is the equal of a conqueror if consciousness is common to them.

I can feel this heart inside me and I conclude it exists. I can touch this world and I also conclude that it exists. All my knowledge ends at this point. The rest is hypothesis.

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.

When I was young, I expected from people more than they could give: neverending friendship and constant excitement. Now I expect less than they can actually can give: to stay close silently. And their feelings, friendship, noble deeds always seem like a miracle to me: a true grace.