In the dark room a cloud of yellow dust flew from beneath the tool like a scatter of sparks from under the hooves of a galloping horse. The twin wheels turned and hummed. Binet was smiling, his chin down, his nostrils distended. He seemed lost in the kind of happiness which, as a rule, accompanies only those mediocre occupations that tickle the intelligence with easy difficulties, and satisfy it with a sense of achievement beyond which there is nothing left for dreams to feed on.

Me and my books in the same apartment, like a gherkin in its vinegar.

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

You must write for yourself, above all. That is your only hope of creating something beautiful.

But, in her life, nothing was going to happen. Such was the will of God! The future was a dark corridor, and at the far end the door was bolted.

Reality does not conform to the ideal, but confirms it.

By trying to understand everything, everything makes me dream