Why are we worn out? Why do we, who start out so passionate, brave, noble, believing, become totally bankrupt by the age of thirty or thirty-five? Why is it that one is extinguished by consumption, another puts a bullet in his head, a third seeks oblivion in vodka, cards, a fourth, in order to stifle fear and anguish, cynically tramples underfoot the portrait of his pure, beautiful youth? Why is it that, once fallen, we do not try to rise, and, having lost one thing, we do not seek another? Why?

You look boldly ahead; isn't it only that you don't see or divine anything terrible in the future; because life is still hidden from your young eyes.

If I were asked to chose between execution and life in prison I would, of course, chose the latter. It's better to live somehow than not at all.

I don’t understand anything about the ballet; all I know is that during the intervals the ballerinas stink like horses.

Death is terrifying, but it would be even more terrifying to find out that you are going to live forever and never die.

I confess I seldom commune with my conscience when I write.

I kept thinking how marvellous it would be if I could somehow tear my heart, which felt so heavy, out of my chest.