No matter how the sun shone, the sea held forth no more promises.

A craving for freedom and independence is generated only in a man still living on hope.

Some other memories of the funeral have stuck in my mind. The old boy’s face, for instance, when he caught up with us for the last time, just outside the village. His eyes were streaming with tears, of exhaustion or distress, or both together. But because of the wrinkles they couldn’t flow down. They spread out, crisscrossed, and formed a smooth gloss on the old, worn face.

Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.

In our wildest aberrations we dream of an equilibrium we have left behind and which we naively expect to find at the end of our errors. Childish presumption which justifies the fact that child-nations, inheriting our follies, are now directing our history.

Betrayal answers betrayal, the mask of love is answered by the disappearance of love.

Our reason has driven all away. Alone at last, we end up ruling over a desert.