And indeed, what is better than to sit by one's fireside in the evening with a book, while the wind beats against the window and the lamp is buring?

… 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!

Writing history is like drinking an ocean and pissing a cupful.

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

I don't believe that happiness is possible, but I think tranquility is.

We think of women at every age: while still children, we fondle with a naïve sensuality the breasts of those grown-up girls kissing us and cuddling us in their arms; at the age of ten, we dream of love; at fifteen, love comes along; at sixty, it is still with us, and if dead men in their tombs have any thought in their heads, it is how to make their way underground to the nearby grave, lift the shroud of the dear departed women, and mingle with her in her sleep

There are two infinities that confuse me: the one in my soul devours me; the one around me will crush me