We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench

We should have thought of it when the world was young, in the nineties.

My dear Tom, Delighted to get your letter. Do write again. This life is terrible and I don't understand how it can be endured.

And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.

It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.

I know those little phrases that seem so innocuous, and, once you let them in, pollute the whole of speech. 'Nothing is more real than nothing.' They rise up out of the pit and know no rest until they drag you down into its dark.

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