Smokers, male and female, inject and excuse idleness in their lives every time they light a cigarette.

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.

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.

To a poet, silence is an acceptable response, even a flattering one.

The true traveler is he who goes on foot, and even then, he sits down a lot of the time.

By means of an image we are often able to hold on to our lost belongings. But it is the desperateness of losing which picks the flowers of memory, binds the bouquet.

I did not look for her, because I was afraid of dispelling the mystery we attach to people whom we know only casually.