Happy was she who could believe without seeing, who was at one with the duration and continuity of life.

Come sleep with me: We won't make Love,Love will make us.

But what is memory if not the language of feeling, a dictionary of faces and days and smells which repeat themselves like the verbs and adjectives in a speech, sneaking in behind the thing itself,into the pure present, making us sad or teaching us vicariously.

Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies.

The more a book is like an opium pipe, the more the Chinaman reader is satisfied with it and tends to discuss the quality of the drug rather than its lethargic effects.

The unusual is only found in a very small percentage, except in literary creations, and that is exactly what makes literature.

As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked out in the middle of the courtyard. (...) You don't pick out the rain that soaks you to the skin when you come out of a concert.