Less disappointing than life, great works of art do not begin by giving us all their best.

Our memory is like a shop in the window of which is exposed now one, now another photograph of the same person. And as a rule the most recent exhibit remains for some time the only one to be seen.

Love...., ever unsatisfied, lives always in the moment that is about to come.

In a language known to us, we have substituted the opacity of the sounds with the transparence of the ideas. But a language we donot know is a closed place in which the one we love can deceive us, making us, locked outside and convulsed in our impotence, incapable of seeing or preventing anything.

Nine tenths of the ills from which intelligent people suffer spring from their intellect.

How can we have the courage to wish to live, how can we make a movement to preserve ourselves from death, in a world where love is provoked by a lie and consists solely in the need of having our sufferings appeased by whatever being has made us suffer?

Our intonations contain our philosophy of life, what each of us is constantly telling himself about things.