I think it is impossible for human minds to think of Death as a final, irrevocable end to life.

Death does not frighten me, but dying obscurely and above all uselessly does.

Now more than ever do I realize that I will never be content with a sedentary life, that I will always be haunted by thoughts of a sun-drenched elsewhere.

The savage hatred I feel for crowds is getting worse, natural enemies that they are of imagination and of thought.

While to live in the past and think of what was good and beautiful about it amounts to a sort of seasoning of the present, the perennial wait for tomorrow is bound to result in chronic discontent that poisons one's entire outlook.

From every ruin, life springs up again and everything that dies is born again.

A nomad I was even when I was very small and would stare at the road, that white spellbinding road headed straight for the unknown ... a nomad I will remain for life, in love with distant and uncharted places.