Jealousy is not contemptible, real love has a beak and claws.

Why does one exist? That's not my problem. One does exist. The thing to do is to take no notice but go at it on the run and to keep on going right on until you die.

History is a great cemetery: men, deeds, ideas are always dying as soon as they are born.

Women's mutual understanding comes from the fact that they identify themselves with each other; but for the same reason each is against the others.

Literature takes its revenge on reality by making it the slave of fiction.

A couple who go on living together merely because that was how they began, without any other reason: was that what we were turning into?

A life is such a strange object, at one moment translucent, at another utterly opaque, an object I make with my own hands, an object imposed on me, an object for which the world provides the raw material and then steals it from me again, pulverized by events, scattered, broken, scored yet retaining its unity; how heavy it is and how inconsistent: this contradiction breeds many misunderstandings.