One keeps forgetting old age up to the very brink of the grave.

Sit down and put down everything that comes into your head and then you're a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff's worth, without pity, and destroy most of it.

Look for a long time at what pleases you, and a longer time at what pains you.

It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses.

I believe there are more urgent and honorable occupations than the incomparable waste of time we call suffering.

Our perfect companions never have fewer than four feet.

There are no ordinary cats.