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

Perhaps our only sickness is to desire a truth which we cannot bear rather than to rest content with the fictions we manufacture out of each other.

Sorrow is implicit in love as gravitation is implicit in mass.

Lovers can find nothing to say to each other that has not been said and unsaid a thousand times over. Kisses were invented to translate such nothings into wounds

Music was invented to confirm human loneliness.

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

I don’t believe one reads to escape reality. A person reads to confirm a reality he knows is there, but which he has not experienced.