We inhabit a language rather than a country.

What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?

We are born to exist, not to know, to be, not to assert ourselves.

As the years pass, the number of those we can communicate with diminishes. When there is no longer anyone to talk to, at last we will be as we were before stooping to a name.

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

One doesn't live in a country, one lives in a language.

The wise man, the sage, is hostile to the new. Disabused, he abdicates: that is his form of protest.