I've never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life. My only real concern has been my inner life.

My dreams are a stupid refuge, like an umbrella against a thunderbolt.

We all have two lives: The true, the one we dreamed of in childhood And go on dreaming of as adults in a substratum of mist; the false, the one we love when we live with others, the practical, the useful, the one we end up by being put in a coffin.

FIRST WATCHER Why do people die? SECOND WATCHER Perhaps because they don't dream enough.

What has happened to us has happened to everyone or only to us; if to everyone, then it's no novelty, and if only to us, then it won't be understood.

I suffer from life and from other people. I can’t look at reality face to face. Even the sun discourages and depresses me. Only at night and all alone, withdrawn, forgotten and lost, with no connection to anything real or useful — only then do I find myself and feel comforted.

It's been a long time since I've been me.