He loved the extensive vaults where you could hear the night birds and the sea breeze; he loved the craggy ruins bound together by ivy, those dark halls, and any appearance of death and destruction. Having fallen so far from so high a position, he loved anything that had also fallen from a great height

Writing this book I am like a man playing the piano with lead balls attached to his knuckles.

One never tires of what is well written, style is life! It is the very blood of thought!

Let us not kid ourselves; let us remember that literature is of no use whatever, except in the very special case of somebody's wishing to become, of all things, a Professor of Literature.

May I die like a dog rather than hasten the ripening of a sentence by a single second!

The whole dream of democracy is to raise the proletarian to the level of stupidity attained by the bourgeois.

How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.