Memories images, once they are fixed in words, are erased.

The lives of individuals of the human race form a constant plot, in which every attempt to isolate one piece of living that has a meaning separate from the rest-for example, the meeting of two people, which will become decisive for both-must bear in mind that each of the two brings with himself a texture of events, environments, other people, and that from the meeting, in turn, other stories will be derived which will break off from their common story.

We could say, then, that man is an instrument the world employs to renew its own image constantly.

…we can not love or think except in fragments of time each of which goes along its own trajectory and immediately disappears.

Futures not achieved are only branches of the past: dead branches.

You're the sort of person who, on principle, no longer expects anything of anything. There are plenty, younger than you or less young, who live in the expectation of extraordinary experiences: from books, from people, from journeys, from events, from what tomorrow has in store. But not you. You know that the best you can expect is to avoid the worst.

You'll understand when you've forgotten what you understood before