the press is too often a distorting mirror, which deforms the people and events it represents, making them seem bigger or smaller than they really are.

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.

Want of passion is, I think, a very striking characteristic of Americans, not unrelated to their predilection for violence. For very few people truly have a passionate desire to achieve, and violence serves as a kind of substitute.

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.

Books are not life, only its ashes.

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

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