Cries of despair, misery, sobbing grief are a kind of wealth.

I did not know how to reach him, how to catch up with him... The land of tears is so mysterious.

The house, the stars, the desert -- what gives them their beauty is something that is invisible!

Each man carries within him the soul of a poet who died young.

The tender friendships one gives up, on parting, leave their bite on the heart, but also a curious feeling of a treasure somewhere buried.

You're beautiful, but you're empty...One couldn't die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she's the one I've watered. Since she's the one I put under glass, since she's the one I sheltered behind the screen. Since she's the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except the two or three butterflies). Since she's the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all. Since she's my rose.

I am very fond of sunsets. Come, let us go look at a sunset.