No one can keep his griefs in their prime; they use themselves up.

Each concession we make is accompanied by an inner diminution of which we are not immediately conscious.

Tragic paradox of freedom: the mediocre men who alone make its exercise possible cannot guarantee its duration.

The Art of Love: knowing how to combine the temperament of a vampire with the discretion of an anemone.

Nostalgia, more than anything, gives us the shudder of our own imperfection. This is why with Chopin we feel so little like gods.

Only those moments count, when the desire to remain by yourself is so powerful that you'd prefer to blow your brains out than exchange a word with someone.

No matter which way we go, it is no better than any other. It is all the same whether you achieve something or not, have faith or not, just as it is all the same whether you cry or remain silent.