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

For instance, I never complained that my birthday was overlooked; people were even surprised, with a touch of admiration, by my discretion on this subject. But the reason for my disinterestedness was even more discreet: I longed to be forgotten in order to be able to complain to myself... Once my solitude was thoroughly proved, I could surrender to the charms of a virile self-pity.

In that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself--like a brother, really--I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again.

Without freedom there is no art.

Utopia is that which is in contradiction with reality.

Once in the midst of a seemingly endless winter, I discovered within myself an invincible spring.

An intense feeling carries with it its own universe, magnificent or wretched as the case may be.