“Any time is the time to make a poem.”

French people do like good fighting, they like it better than anything.

When they are alone they want to be with others, and when they are with others they want to be alone. After all, human beings are like that.

Why should a sequence of words be anything but a pleasure?

How likely are definitions to be pleasurable.

As there was never any question there was never any answer.

America is my country and Paris is my hometown.

Suppose no one asked a question. What would the answer be?

Honesty is a selfish virtue. Yes I am honest enough.

Nobody knows what I am trying to do but I do and I know when I succeed.

Love: the skillful audacity required to share an inner life.

It is natural to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes to that siren until she allures us to our death.

The difference between saints, forget-me-nots, and mountains, have to, have to, have to at a time.

It is extraordinary that whole populations have no projects for the future, none at all. It certainly is extraordinary, but it is certainly true.

This is the real thing of disillusion that no one, not any one really is believing, seeing, understanding, thinking anything as you are thinking, believing, seeing, understanding such a thing.

From the very nature of progress, all ages must be transitional.

One must dare to be happy.