There is not a single line in this diary that does not call for a correction or a denial...Yes: throughout these pages I meant what I was writing and I meant the opposite; reading them again I feel completely lost...I was lying to myself. How I lied to myself!

What an odd thing a diary is: the things you omit are more important than those you put in.

She was trying to get rid of a religious hangover.

I take on a shape and an existence only if I first throw myself into the world by loving, by doing.

The knight departing for new adventures offends his lady, yet she has nothing but contempt for him if he remains at her feet.

For me, the problem of time is linked up with that of death, with the thought that we inevitably draw closer and closer to it, with the horror of decay.

Because we are separated everything separates us, even our efforts to join each other.