[On travel:] Who would be so besotted as to die without having made at least the round of this, his prison?

Ancient and oriental civilizations were more sensitive than we are to the cycles of things; to the succession of generations, both divine and human; and to change within stasis. Western man is virtually alone in wanting to make his God into a fortress and personal immortality into a bulwark against time.

All happiness is a work of art: the smallest error falsifies it, the slightest hesitation alters it, the least heaviness spoils it, the slightest stupidity brutalizes it.

All happiness is a form of innocence.

To stay in one place and watch the seasons come and go is tanatmount to constant travel: One is traveling with the earth.

Love is a punishment. We are punished for not having been strong enough to remain alone.

I believe that friendship, like love, of which it is a particular kind, requires nearly as much art as a successful choreography.