Sad company is bad company.

It takes so little, so infinitely little, for a person to cross the border beyond which everything loses meaning: love, convictions, faith, history. Human life -- and herein lies its secret -- takes place in the immediate proximity of that border, even in direct contact with it; it is not miles away, but a fraction of an inch.

Common European thought is the fruit of the immense toil of translators. Without translators, Europe would not exist; translators are more important than members of the European Parliament.

The source of anxiety lies in the future. If you can keep the future out of mind, you can forget your worries.

We can never establish with certainty what part of our relations with others is the result of our emotions - love, antipathy, charity, or malice - and what part is predetermined by the constant power play among individuals.

Before we are forgotten, we will be turned into kitsch. Kitsch is the stopover between being and oblivion.

Is a novel anything but a trap set for a hero?