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

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

Everything turns out to be valuable that one does for one’s self without thought of profit.

In the evenings the art of building gave way to that of music, which is architecture, too, though invisible.

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

This morning it occurred to me for the first time that my body, my faithful companion and friend, truer and better known to me than my own soul, may be after all only a sly beast who will end by devouring his master.

Since man, fragment of the universe, is governed by the same laws that preside over the heavens, it is by no means absurd to search there above for the themes of our lives, for those frigid sympathies that participate in our achievements as well as our blunderings.