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

The past not merely is not fugitive, it remains present.

I drank a second mouthful in which I find nothing more than in the first, then a third which gives me rather less than the second. It is time to stop; the potion is losing its magic.

It is not because other people are dead that our affection for them grows faint, it is because we ourselves are dying.

We are able to find everything in our memory, which is like a dispensary or chemical laboratory in which chance steers our hand sometimes to a soothing drug and sometimes to a dangerous poison.

Things don't change, but by and by our wishes change.

Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.