Nothing in the world is worth turning one's back on what one loves.
Stupidity has a knack of getting its way.
Creating is living doubly. The groping, anxious quest of a Proust, his meticulous collecting of flowers, of wallpapers, and of anxieties, signifies nothing else.
There is so much stubborn hope in the human heart.
Their guilt made me eloquent because I was not its victim.
Mostly, I could tell, I made him feel uncomfortable. He didn't understand me, and he was sort of holding it against me. I felt the urge to reassure him that I was like everybody else, just like everybody else. But really there wasn't much point, and I gave up the idea out of laziness.