Sometimes I think I'm liquefying like an old Camembert.

Once one has kissed a cadaver's forehead, there always remains something of it on the lips, an infinite bitterness, an aftertasteof nothingness that nothing can erase.

Everything is there: the love of Art.

The more you approach infinity, the deeper you penetrate terror

After the pain of this disappointment her heart once more stood empty, and the succession of identical days began again.

Adultery ... could be as banal as marriage.

The only way to avoid being unhappy is to close yourself up in Art and to count for nothing all the rest.