The writer is the duelist who never fights at the stated hour, who gathers up an insult, like another curious object, a collector's item, spreads it out on his desk later, and then engages in a duel with it verbally. Some people call it weakness. I call it postponement. What is weakness in the man becomes a quality in the writer. For he preserves, collects what will explode later in his work. That is why the writer is the loneliest man in the world; because he lives, fights, dies, is reborn always alone; all his roles are played behind a curtain. In life he is an incongruous figure.

You live out the confusions until they become clear.

Balance is not to be sought by association with others; it must exist within one's self.

[On Paris:] A city never entirely known, yet which gives you the feeling of intimacy, of possessing it intimately.

Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through.

Life is so fluid that one can only hope to capture the living moment, to capture it alive and fresh ... without destroying that moment.

When I hear of people who weary of each other, I believe it is because they have sought virtues in themselves alone, attractions of physical beauty. Have they based their love on each other's thoughts? Who can weary of thoughts which change every day?