I suppose the secret of his success is in his tremendous idleness which almost approaches the supernatural.

An idea is like a rare bird which cannot be seen. What one sees is the trembling of the branch it has just left.

I am quite alone. I am neither happy nor unhappy; I lie suspended like a hair or a feather in the cloudy mixtures of memory.

Love joins and then divides. How else would we be growing?

I'm trying to die correctly, but it's very difficult, you know.

Music was invented to confirm human loneliness.

Guilt always hurries towards its complement, punishment: only there does its satisfaction lie.