The itch is a mean, unconfessable, ridiculous malady; one can pity someone who is suffering ; someone who wants to scratch himself makes one laugh.

If a young writer can refrain from writing, he shouldn’t hesitate to do so.

Old hands soil, it seems, whatever they caress, but they too have their beauty when they are joined in prayer. Young hands were made for caresses and the sheathing of love. It is a pity to make them join too soon.

True eloquence forgoes eloquence.

In order to be utterly happy the only thing necessary is to refrain from comparing this moment with other moments in the past, which I often did not fully enjoy because I was comparing them with other moments of the future.

It is often so: the harder it is to hear, the more a truth is worth saying.

The abominable effort to take one’s sins with one to paradise.