… Her heart remained empty once more, and the procession of days all alike began again. So they were going to follow one another, like this, in line, always identical, innumerable, bringing nothing!

Tout ce qu'on invente est vrai, soi-en sure. La poesie est une chose aussi precise que la geometrie.

She wanted to die, but she also wanted to live in Paris.

Everything which one invents is true, be sure of it.

The deplorable mania of doubt exhausts me. I doubt about everything, even my doubts.

You can calculate the worth of a man by the number of his enemies, and the importance of a work of art by the harm that is spoken of it.

I have dreamed much and have done very little.