Melancholy is a sensual pleasure that is deliberately provoked. How many people shut themselves away to make themselves sadder, or to weep beside a stream, or choose a sentimental book! We are constantly building and unbuilding ourselves.

One mustn't ask apple trees for oranges, France for sun, women for love, life for happiness.

The writer must wade into life as into the sea, but only up to the navel.

I go from exasperation to a state of collapse, then I recover and go from prostration to Fury, so that my average state is one of being annoyed.

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

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

I'm absolutely removed from the world at such times...The hours go by without my knowing it. Sitting there I'm wandering in countries I can see every detail of - I'm playing a role in the story I'm reading. I actually feel I'm the characters - I live and breath with them.