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.

In adultery, there is usually tenderness and self-sacrifice; in murder, courage; in profanation and blasphemy, a certain satanic splendour. Judas elected those offences unvisited by any virtues: abuse of confidence and informing.

The worst labyrinth is not that intricate form that can entrap us forever, but a single and precise straight line

I am not sure of anything, I know nothing . . . can you imagine that I don't even know the date of my own death?

To die for a religion is easier than to live it absolutely.

We have shared out, like thieves, the amazing treasures of days and nights.

The aesthetic event is something as evident, as immediate, as indefinable as love, the taste of fruit, of water. We feel poetry as we feel the closeness of a woman, or as we feel a mountain or a bay. If we feel it immediately, why dilute it with other words, which no doubt will be weaker than our feelings?