There is not a woman in the world the possession of whom is as precious as that of the truths which she reveals to us by causing us to suffer.

Only imagination and belief can differentiate from the rest certain objects, certain people, and can create an atmosphere.

No doubt very few people understand the purely subjective nature of the phenomenon that we call love, or how it creates, so to speak, a supplementary person, distinct from the person whom the world knows by the same name, a person most of whose constituent elements are derived from ourselves.

Everybody calls "clear" those ideas which have the same degree of confusion as his own.

In times like ours, where the growing complexity of life leaves us barely the time to read the newspapers, where the map of Europehas endured profound rearrangements and is perhaps on the brink of enduring yet others, where so many threatening and new problems appear everywhere, you will admit it may be demanded of a writer that he be more than a fine wit who makes us forget in idle and byzantine discussions on the merits of pure form.

It is up to my spirit to find the truth. But how? Grave uncertainty, each time the spirit feels beyond its own comprehension; whenit, the explorer, is altogether to obscure land that it must search and where all its baggage is of no use. To search? That is not all: to create.

A woman one loves rarely suffices for all our needs, so we deceive her with another whom we do not love.