If you would tell me the heart of a man, tell me not what he reads, but what he rereads.

That is the mystery of grace: it never comes too late.

A good critic is the sorcerer who makes some hidden spring gush forth unexpectedly under our feet.

Men resemble great deserted palaces: the owner occupies only a few rooms and has closed-off wings where he never ventures.

A man's passion for the mountain is, above all, his childhood which refuses to die.

Where does discipline end? Where does cruelty begin? Somewhere between these, thousands of children inhabit a voiceless hell.

A writer is essentially a man who does not resign himself to loneliness.