I have come to think that great men are characterized precisely by the extreme position which they take, and that their heroism consists in holding to that extremity throughout their lives.

Every hour has its immediate duty, its special injunction which dominates all others.

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.

A touch of madness is, I think, almost always necessary for constructing a destiny.

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

Little soul, gentle and drifting, guest and companion of my body, now you will dwell below in pallid places, stark and bare; there you will abandon your play of yore. But one moment still, let us gaze together on these familiar shores, on these objects which doubtless we shall not see again....Let us try, if we can, to enter into death with open eyes.

We say: mad with joy. We should say: wise with grief.