I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.
The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.
The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.
Genius is an African who dreams up snow.
Some people, and I am one of them, hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm.
Imagination, the supreme delight of the immortal and the immature, should be limited. In order to enjoy life, we should not enjoy it too much.
To play safe, I prefer to accept only one type of power: the power of art over trash, the triumph of magic over the brute.
I think like a genius, I write like a distinguished author, and I speak like a child.
Discussion in class, which means letting twenty young blockheads and two cocky neurotics discuss something that neither their teacher nor they know.
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
Complacency is a state of mind that exists only in retrospective: it has to be shattered before being ascertained.
Satire is a lesson, parody is a game.
Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.
Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.
A work of art has no importance whatever to society. It is only important to the individual.
Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.
It is hard, I submit, to loathe bloodshed, including war, more than I do, but it is still harder to exceed my loathing of the very nature of totalitarian states in which massacre is only an administrative detail.
My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
Caress the detail, the divine detail.
There are aphorisms that, like airplanes, stay up only while they are in motion.