The bourgeois are other people.
I am afraid I shall not find him, but I shall still look for him, for if he exists, he may be appreciative of my efforts.
There is nothing like literature: I lose a cow, I write about her death, and my writing pays me enough to buy another cow.
There are no friends; only moments of friendship.
We spend our lives talking about this mystery. Our life.
The ideal of calm exists in a sitting cat.