Reality is a prison, where one vegetates and always will. All the rest - thought, action - is just a pastime, mental or physical. What counts then, is to come to grips with reality. The rest can go.

A work settles nothing, just as the labor of a whole generation settles nothing. Sons, and the morrow, always start afresh.

Writing is a fine thing, because it combines the two pleasures of talking to yourself and talking to a crowd.

It is not that the child lives in a world of imagination, but that the child within us survives and starts into life only at rare moments of recollection, which makes us believe, and it is not true, that, as children, we were imaginative?

We never remember days, only moments.

You don't remember days, you remember moments.

The richness of life lies in memories we have forgotten.