If you don't keep and guard and mature your force, and above all, have time and quiet to perfect your work, you will be writing things not much better than you did five years ago.

The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one's own.

In little towns, lives roll along so close to one another; loves and hates beat about, their wings almost touching.

Every artist makes himself born. It is very much harder than the other time, and longer.

I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived.

Paris is a hard place to leave, even when it rains incessantly and one coughs continually from the dampness.

Now I understood that the same road was to bring us together again. Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past.