“Life without smoking is like the smoke without the roast.”

We never remember days, only moments.

Misfortunes cannot suffice to make a fool into an intelligent man.

We do not free ourselves from something by avoiding it, but only by living though it.

It’s pointless to cry. One is born and dies alone.

Waiting is still an occupation. It is having nothing to wait for that is terrible.

A decision, an action, are infallible omens of what we shall do another time, not for any vague, mystic, astrological reason but because they result from an automatic reaction that will repeat itself.

One stops being a child when one realizes that telling one’s trouble does not make it any better.

The richness of life lies in memories we have forgotten.

But the real, tremendous truth is this: suffering serves no purpose whatever.

To avenge a wrong done to you, is to rob yourself of the comfort of crying out against the injustice of it.

The act the act must not be a revenge. It must be a calm, weary renunciation, a closing of accounts, a private, rhythmic deed. The last remark.

There is no finer revenge than that which others inflict on your enemy. Moreover, it has the advantage of leaving you the role of a generous man.

Love is the cheapest of religions.

A man succeeds in completing a work only when his qualities transcend that work.

Great lovers will always be unhappy, because, for them, love is of supreme importance. Consequently they demand of their beloved the same intensity of thought as they have for her, otherwise they feel betrayed.

Love has the faculty of making two lovers seem naked, not in each other’s sight, but in their own.

Man is a credulous animal, and must believe something; in the absence of good grounds for belief, he will be satisfied with bad ones.

To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due.

I feel your absence deeply within my heart because we are already, and almost apart.

At the heart of all men suffering lies the absence of safety, and from that absence, fear is born.

This is a poem about love its absence is merely an optical illusion.

Why do I paint a happy face every single holiday when they are a stinging reminder of what and who is absent.

I’m not making a problem out of a personal question; I make of a personal question an absence of a problem.

Let them walk away. They will grasp for air, because of your absence, and because you were already ten steps ahead of them.