In my youth I regarded the universe as an open book, printed in the language of equations, whereas now it appears to me as a text written in invisible ink, of which in our rare moments of grace we are able to decipher a small segment.

[My father] loved me tenderly and shyly from a distance, and later on took a naive pride in seeing my name in print.

The Revolutionary's Utopia, which in appearance represents a complete break with the past, is always modeled on some image of the Lost Paradise, of a legendary Golden Age... All utopias are fed from the source of mythology; the social engineers' blueprints are merely revised editions of the ancient text.

I am not sure whether ethical absolutes exist. But I am sure that we have to act as if they existed or civilization perishes.

God seems to have left the receiver off the hook and time is running out.

To want to meet an author because you like his books is as ridiculous as wanting to meet the goose because you like pate de foie gras.

One may not regard the world as a sort of metaphysical brothel for emotions.