We live not alone but chained to a creature of a different kingdom: our body.

For everyone who, having no artistic sense-that is to say, no submission to subjective reality-may have the knack of reasoning about art till doomsday, especially if he be, in addition, a diplomat or financier in contact with the 'realities' of the present day, is only too ready to believe literature is an intellectual game which is destined to gradually be abandoned as time goes on.

Wars are fought for the benefit of oligarchs, triumphs bought with the blood of peons.

Are not the thoughts of the dying often turned towards the practical, painful, obscure, visceral aspect, towards the "seamy side" of death which is, as it happens, the side that death actually presents to them and forces them to feel, and which far more closely resembles a crushing burden, a difficulty in breathing, a destroying thirst, than the abstract idea to which we are accustomed to give the name of Death?

My destination is no longer a place, rather a new way of seeing.

What a profound significance small things assume when the woman we love conceals them from us.

Love is not vain because it is frustrated, but because it is fulfilled. The people we love turn to ashes when we posess them.