You have first to experience what you want to express.

Do you know what makes the prison disappear? Every deep, genuine affection. Being friends, being brothers, loving, that is what opens the prison, with supreme power, by some magic force. Without these one stays dead. But whenever affection is revived, there life revives.

There is but one Paris and however hard living may be here, and if it became worse and harder even—the French air clears up the brain and does good—a world of good.

For myself, I declare I don't know anything about it. But the sight of the stars always makes me dream.

The victory one would gain after a whole life of work and effort is better than one that is gained sooner.

I consciously choose the dog's path through life. I shall be poor; I shall be a painter.

The sight of stars always sets me dreaming just as naively as those black dots on a map set me dreaming of towns and villages. Why should these points of light in the firmament, I wonder, be less accessible than the dark ones on the map of France? We take a train to go to Torascon or Roven and we take death to a star.