O light! This the cry of all the characters of ancient drama brought face to face with their fate. This last resort was ours, too, and I knew it now. In the middle of winter I at last discovered that there was in me an invincible summer.

Cruel irony, the poor man tormented with hunger feeds those who plead his case.

The artist forges himself to the others, midway between the beauty he cannot do without and the community he cannot tear himself away from. That is why true artists scorn nothing: they are obliged to understand rather than to judge.

The more I accuse myself, the more right I have to judge you. Even better, I make you judge yourself, which comforts me the more.

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.

The look of success, when it is worn a certain way, would infuriate a jackass.

But above all, in order to be, never try to seem.