Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.

We breathe love as we breathe air; we hold it in ourselves as we hold our thoughts. Nothing more exists for us.

Whether we are describing a king, an assassin, a thief, an honest man, a prostitute, a nun, a young girl, or a stallholder in a market, it is always ourselves that we are describing.

Patriotism is a kind of religion; it is the egg from which wars are hatched.

The bed comprehends our whole life, for we were born in it, we live in it, and we shall die in it

I told myself 'Everything is a being! The shout that passes into the air is an entity like an animal, since it is born, produces a movement, and is again transformed, in order to die. So the fearful mind that believes in incorporeal beings is not wrong. What are they?

We are accustomed to use our eyes only with the memory of what other people before us have thought about the object we are looking at.