The memory of most men is an abandoned cemetery where lie, unsung and unhonored, the dead whom they have ceased to cherish. Any lasting grief is reproof to their neglect.

One reads thousands of books, of poets, modern and ancient, as one meets thousands of people. What remains of it all is hard to tell.

A young musician plays scales in his room and only bores his family. A beginning writer, on the other hand, sometimes has the misfortune of getting into print.

The written word has taught me to listen to the human voice, much as the great unchanging statues have taught me to appreciate bodily motions.

This city belongs to ghosts, to murderers, to sleepwalkers. Where are you, in what bed, in what dream?

Our true birthplace is that in which we cast for the first time an intelligent eye on ourselves. My first homelands were my books.

Morals are a matter of private agreement; decency is of public concern.