Frost in January minus 20 for a week. Dead birds frozen on the branch—they fall with the first thaw like ripe fruit—death-ripened. We shall all end like them—just a stain in the snow.

It is not peace we seek but meaning.

What are stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?

Our inventions mirror our secret wishes.

All culture corrupts, but French culture corrupts absolutely.

The artist's work constitutes the only satisfactory relationship he can have with his fellow men since he seeks his real friends among the dead and the unborn.

Life is more complicated than we think, yet far simpler than anyone dares to imagine