Everyone loathes his own country and countrymen if he is any sort of artist.

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.

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

A critic is a lug-worm in the liver of literature.

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

The richest love is that which submits to the arbitration of time.

The memory of man is as old as misfortune