I am alive again, now that I can no longer stand to live.

In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.

In order to understand the world, one has to turn away from it on occasion; in order to serve others better, one has to hold them at a distance for a time. But where can one find the solitude necessary to vigor, the deep breath in which the mind collects itself and courage gauges its strength? There remain big cities.

Myths are made for the imagination to breath life into them.

One grows out of pity when it's useless.

The more I produce, the less I am certain. On the road along which the artist walks, night falls ever more densely. Finally, he dies blind.

History only exists, in the final analysis, for God.