He had the vanity to believe men did not like him – while men simply did not know him.

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?

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

And he beholds the moon; like a rounded fragment of ice filled with motionless light.

I have the handicap of being born with a special language to which I alone have the key.

But some day sooner or later our passion would have cooled - inevitably - it's the way with everything human.

I have patience in all things - as far as the antechamber.