When a private talk over a bottle of wine is broadcast on the radio, what can it mean but that the world is turning into a concentration camp?

We all reject out of hand the idea that the love of our life may be something light or weightless; we presume our love is what must be, that without it our life would no longer be the same; we feel that Beethoven himself, gloomy and awe-inspiring, is playing the “Es muss sein!” to our own great love.

Those who consider the Devil to be a partisan of Evil and angels to be warriors for Good accept the demagogy of the angels. Things are clearly more complicated.

At the end of true love is death, and only the love that ends in death is love.

Fortunately women have the miraculous ability to change the meaning of their actions after the event.

I think I am a much better actor than I have allowed myself to be.

... characters are not born like people, of woman; they are born of a situation, a sentence, a metaphor containing in a nutshell a basic human possibility that the author thinks no one else has discovered or said something essential about.