“That desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love.”

The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.

I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.

But what matter whether I was born or not, have lived or not, am dead or merely dying. I shall go on doing as I have always done, not knowing what it is I do, nor who I am, nor where I am, nor if I am.

If you don’t know where you are currently standing, you’re dead.

The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust.

To restore silence is the role of objects.

Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.

Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.

Poets are the sense, philosophers­­ the intelligence­­ of humanity.

Do we mean love, when we say love?

Sometimes I wonder if I’m in my right mind. Then it passes off and I’m as intelligent as ever.

We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.

Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.

If I was dead, I wouldn’t know I was dead. That’s the only thing I have against death. I want to enjoy my death.

I marshalled the words and opened my mouth, thinking I would hear them. But all I heard was a kind of rattle, unintelligible even to me who knew what was intended.

The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.

On the one hand, I want to go off and live in the desert with my dog and sculpt things out of adobe.

A library outranks any other one thing a community can do to benefit its people. It is a never failing spring in the desert.

He was an ocean of pure love but after what he had to go through, now he’s a desert of hopeless romance.

Much love much trial, but what an utter desert is life without love.

Oh, Lord! You’ve been with me in six troubles, don’t desert me in the seventh!

Love is wild; its whole beauty is in its wildness. It comes like a breeze with great fragrance, fills your heart, and suddenly where there was a desert there is a garden full of flowers.

Rain generate hope in the desert so as her touch in me.  

What makes the desert beautiful,’ said the little prince, ‘is that somewhere it hides a well.