A good sentence in prose should be like a good line in poetry, unchangeable, as rhythmic, as sonorous.

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

Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.

I am alone on this road strewn with bones and bordered by ruins! Angels have their brothers, and demons have their infernal companions. Yet I have but the sound of my scythe when it harvests, my whistling arrows, my galloping horse. Always the sound of the same wave eating away at the world

She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.

That man has missed something who has never left a brothel at sunrise feeling like throwing himself into the river out of pure disgust.

You can't find the soul with a scalpel.