The creatures I seek do not want to be seen.
Books swept me away, this way and that, one after the other; I made endless vows according to their lights for I believed them.
What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?
The world knew you before you knew the world.
Every book has an intrinsic impossibility, which its writer discovers as soon as his first excitement dwindles.
These are our few live seasons. Let us live them as purely as we can, in the present.