Science is the poetry of the intellect and poetry the science of the heart's affections.

The whole Mediterranean, the sculpture, the palm, the gold beads, the bearded heroes, the wine, the ideas, the ships, the moonlight, the winged gorgons, the bronze men, the philosophers - all of it seems to rise in the sour, pungent taste of these black olives between the teeth. A taste older than meat, older than wine. A taste as old as cold water.

Truth is a woman. That is why it is enigmatic.

All artists today are expected to cultivate a little fashionable unhappiness.

Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?

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

Truth disappears with the telling of it.