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

We [writers] must know that we can never escape the common misery and that our only justification, if indeed there is a justification, is to speak up, insofar as we can, for those who cannot do so.

How hard it is, how bitter it is to become a man!

The future is the only kind of property that the masters willingly concede to the slaves.

Every authentic work of art is a gift offered to the future.

What more ghastly image can be called up than that of a man betrayed by his body who, simply because he did not die in time, lives out the comedy while awaiting the end, face to face with that God he does not adore, serving him as he served life, kneeling before a void and arms outstretched toward a heaven without eloquence that he knows to be also without depth?

The great courage is to stare as squarely at the light as at death.