In England, life is a long process of composing oneself.

In thoughts one keeps a reserve of hope, in spite of everything. You cannot say good-bye in imagination. That is something you can only do in actuality.

At first, there is something you expect of life. Later, there is what life expects of you. By the time you realize these are the same, it can be too late for expectations. What we are being, not what we are to be. They are the same thing.

Madness might sometimes give access to a kind of knowledge. But was not a guarantee.

The tragedy is not that love doesn't last. The tragedy is the love that lasts.

Italians are never punctual; the café, the convenient place to wait, absolves them from that. There is no question of hanging about, no looking lost and unwanted or even disreputable, as there is in hotel lobbies or the foyers of restaurants. One just sits and enjoys the scene, and waits.

... one doesn't really profit from experience; one merely learns to predict the next mistake.