Tell me what you read and I'll tell you who you are is true enough, but I'd know you better if you told me what you reread.

What I fear is not being forgotten after my death, but, rather, not being enough forgotten. As we were saying, it is not our books that survive, but our poor lives that linger in the histories.

This God who, as the psalmist said, built His tabernacles in the sun, now establishes Himself in the very core of the flesh and the blood.

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

God does not answer our desperate questionings; he simply gives us himself.

There is no accident in our choice of reading. All our sources are related.

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