What can be said, lacks reality. Only what fails to make its way into words exists and counts.

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

I don’t understand how people can believe in God, even when I myself think of him everyday.

If each of us were to confess his most secret desire, the one that inspires all his plans, all his actions, he would say: "I want to be praised."

What does the future, that half of time, matter to the man who is infatuated with eternity?

We die in proportion to the words we fling around us.

No one can do without some semblance of immortality, and even less will they deny themselves the right to seek it out in the form of this or that reputation, starting with the literary... Since death has come to be accepted by all as the absolute end, everyone writes.