Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.

We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.

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

Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.

I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.

In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.

Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.