There are all sorts of ways of murdering a person or at least his soul, and that's something no police in the world can spot.
There are moments when her voice is all he needs.
There is no art without Eros.
Plots- it seems there are thousands of them, all one's acquaintances known some, strangers make a present of them in letters, each the basis for a play or a novel.
They wanted what is possible only once: the now.
Present it is a culture that strictly ignores present obligations and places itself entirely at the service of eternity.
To a certain degree we are really the person others have seen in us.
Strictly speaking, every citizen above a certain level of income is guilty of some offense.
To write is to read one's own self.
I have no words for my reality.
I know that I'm the happiest of lovers.
I live, like every real man, in my work.
If on some occasion I happen to read something in it ? because, for instance, I need to know a date ? I am always disconcerted to find that two or five years ago I came to exactly the same conclusion, only to forget it because I had not succeeded in living up to it; in fact, I had tenaciously been doing the very opposite.
It is a sign of non-love that is to say a sin, to form a finished image of ones neighbors.
It is the secret that a man and a woman keep from each other that make them a couple.
Life is boring. I have experiences now only when I am writing.
My reality doesn't lie in the part I play, but in the unconscious decision as to what kind of part I assign to myself.
Not to know one another to a degree that went beyond all possibility of knowing one another was beautiful.
One can be resolved to promote good, or one can be resolved to be a good person- Two separate things that are mutually exclusive.
Our guilt has its uses. It justifies much in the lives of others.
Overcoming prejudice: the only possible way through love, which creates no graven images.
People with the same education as my own, speaking the same words that I do, loving the same books, the same music, the same paintings, are by no means immune from the danger of turning into monsters and doing things we would not have thought possible among the people of our own day, apart from a few pathological exceptions. If they are not immune, Why should I be so confident of my own immunity?
How much frankness can we stand in a friend?
How much self-knowledge is limited to presenting other people with a more precise and exact description of our weaknesses.
I feel fairly certain that my hatred harms me more than the people whom I hate.