There are no moral or intellectual merits. Homer composed the Odyssey; if we postulate an infinite period of time, with infinite circumstances and changes, the impossible thing is not to compose the Odyssey, at least once.

We are our memory, we are that chimerical museum of shifting shapes, that pile of broken mirrors.

We are as ignorant of the meaning of the dragon as we are of the meaning of the universe.

There are those who seek the love of a woman to forget her, to not think about her.

I cannot walk through the suburbs in the solitude of the night without thinking that the night pleases us because it suppresses idle details, just as our memory does.

The truth is that we live out our lives putting off all that can be put off; perhaps we all know deep down that we are immortal and that sooner or later all men will do and know all things.

We have stopped believing in progress. What progress that is !