I go dreaming into the future, where I see nothing, nothing. I have no plans, no idea, no project, and, what is worse, no ambition. Something – the eternal ‘what’s the use?’ – sets its bronze barrier across every avenue that I open up in the realm of hypothesis.

In my view, the novelist has no right to express his opinions on the things of this world. In creating, he must imitate God: do his job and then shut up.

The denigration of those we love always detaches us from them in some degree. Never touch your idols: the gilding will stick to your fingers.

Pleasure is found first in anticipation, later in memory.

Only three things are infinite. The sky in its stars, the sea in its drops of water, and the heart in its tears.

I know nothing more noble than the contemplation of the world.

Maybe happiness too is a metaphor invented on a day of boredom