“In my head there are several windows, that I do know, but perhaps it is always the same one, open variously on the parading universe.”

Nothing is more real than nothing.

What do we do now, now that we are happy?

For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.

If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.

I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.

But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late!

Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.

I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.

If you do not love me I shall not be loved If I do not love you I shall not love.

All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.

Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.

All life long, the same questions, the same answers.

Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it’s the most comical thing in the world.

Don’t look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.

The essential doesn’t change.