“The man who cannot live with charity, sharing other men’s pain, is punished by feeling his own with intolerable anguish.”

Woman gives herself as a prize to the weak and as a prop to the strong and no man ever has what he should.

One does not kill oneself for love of a woman, but because love – any love – reveals us in our nakedness, our misery, our vulnerability, our nothingness.

It had to happen to you, to concentrate your whole life on one point, and then discover that you can do anything except live at that point.

There is something indecent in words .

Give me the ready hand rather than the ready tongue.

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.