Every artist preserves deep within him a single source from which, throughout his lifetime, he draws what he is, and what he says. When the source dries up, the work withers and crumbles.

To grow old is to pass from passion to compassion.

The truth is that nothing is less sensational than pestilence, and by reason of their very duration great misfortunes are monotonous.

The workman of today works every day in his life at the same tasks, and this fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious.

History, as an entirety, could only exist in the eyes of an observer outside it and outside the world. History only exists, in the final analysis, for God.

The soul of a murderer is blind

There is but one freedom, to put oneself right with death. After that everything is possible.