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.

I was tormented by my desire for a woman ... I thought so much about a woman, about women, about all the ones I had known, about all the circumstances in which I had enjoyed them, that my cell would be filled with their faces and crowded with my desires.

Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure.

When the soul suffers too much, it develops a taste for misfortune.

When a war breaks out, people say: "It's too stupid; it can't last long." But though a war may well be "too stupid," that doesn't prevent its lasting. Stupidity has a knack of getting its way; as we should see if we were not always so much wrapped up in ourselves.

To abandon oneself to principles is really to die - and to die for an impossible love which is the contrary of love.

One grows out of pity when it's useless.