In your efforts to dazzle us your reasoning has gone awry. You know very well that love is, above all, the gift of oneself.

It is restful, tragedy, because one knows that there is no more lousy hope left. You know you're caught, caught at last like a rat with all the world on its back. And the only thing left to do is shout - not moan, or complain, but yell out at the top of your voice whatever it was you had to say. What you've never said before. What perhaps you don't even know till now.

Death has to be waiting at the end of the ride before you truly see the earth, and feel your heart, and love the world.

With God, what is terrible is that one never knows whether it's not just a trick of the devil.

Poor little men, poor little cocks! As soon as they're old enough, they swell their plumage to be conquerors. If they only knew that it's enough to be just a little bit wounded and sad in order to obtain everything without fighting for it.

Beauty, real beauty, is something very grave. If there is a God, He must be partly that.

There will always be a lost dog somewhere that will keep me from being happy.