When you are forty, half of you belongs to the past... And when you are seventy, nearly all of you.

One cannot weep for the entire world, it is beyond human strength. One must choose.

All prisons are brimming over with innocence. It is those who cram their fellows into them, in the name of empty ideas, who are the only guilty ones.

Life is very nice, but it has no shape. The object of art is actually to give it some and to do it by every artifice possible-truer than the truth.

We poison our lives with fear of burglary and shipwreck, and, ask anyone, the house is never burgled, and the ship never goes down.

Life is very nice, but it lacks form. It's the aim of art to give it some.

Love is, above all, the gift of oneself.