When the body is sad, the heart languishes.

At that moment he knew what his mother was thinking, and that she loved him. But he knew, too, that to love someone means relatively little; or, rather, that love is never strong enough to find the words befitting it. Thus he and his mother would always love each other silently. And one day she--or he--would die, without ever, all their lives long, having gone farther than this by way of making their affection known.

Thus each of us had to be content to live only for the day, alone under the vast indifference of the sky.

If Christianity is pessimistic as to man, it is optimistic as to human destiny. Well, I can say that, pessimistic as to human destiny, I am optimistic as to man.

For there is merely bad luck in not being loved; there is misfortune in not loving.

A character is never the author who created him. It is quite likely, however, that an author may be all his characters simultaneously.

If nothing had any meaning, you would be right. But there is something that still has a meaning.