History is an endless repetition of the wrong way of living.

These are the moments which are not calculable, and cannot be assessed in words; they live on in the solution of memory, like wonderful creatures, unique of their own kind, dredged up from the floors of some unexplored ocean.

I have decided to leave Clea’s last letter un-answered. I no longer wish to coerce anyone, to make promises, to think of life in terms of compacts, resolutions, covenants. It will be up to Clea to interpret my silence according to her own needs and desires, to come to me if she has need or not, as the case may be. Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?

People only see in us the contemptible skirt-fever which rules our actions but completely miss the beauty-hunger underlying it.

Music was invented to confirm human loneliness.

Of women, the most we can say, not being Frenchmen, is that they are burrowing animals.

A taste older than meat, older than wine. A taste as old as cold water.