Passion such as hers is all consent, asking little in return. I had merely to enter a room where she was to see her face take on that peaceful expression of one who is resting in bed. If I touched her, I had the impression that all the blood in her veins was turning to honey.

Cruelty is the luxury of those who have nothing to do, like drugs or racing stables.

The world is big … May it please the One who perchance is to expand the human heart to life's full measure.

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

Writing is a perpetual choice between a thousand expressions, none of which satisfies me, none of which, above all, satisfies me without the others. Yet I ought to know that only music permits a succession of chords.

Any truth creates a scandal.

I knew that good like bad becomes a routine, that the temporary tends to endure, that what is external permeates to the inside, and that the mask, given time, comes to be the face itself.