Until the day when, your endurance gone, in this world for you without arms, you catch up in yours the first mangy cur you meet, carry it for the time needed for it to love it and you it, then throw it away.

Light black. From pole to pole.

The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.

We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.

Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.

That passed the time. It would have passed in any case. Yes, but not so rapidly.

They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.