I walked into my own book, seeking peace. It was night, and I made a careless movement inside the dream; I turned too brusquely the corner and I bruised myself against my madness.

Not afraid of poverty and drabness and who is untouched by it, untouched by the drunkenness of her friends; (she) who judges, selects, discards people with severity, who knows, when she is telling her endless anecdotes, that they are ways of escape, keeping herself all the more secret behind that profuse talk.

While analyzing so many people I realized the constant need of a mother, or a father, or a god (the same thing) is really immaturity. It is a childish need, a human need, but so universal that I can see how it gave birth to all religions.

gold never comes to the dreamers - except in dreams.

The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.

Most artists have retired too absolutely; they grow rusty, inflexible to the flow of currents.

We sit on the kitchen exchanging these diabolical outgrowths of overfertile minds.