“One can never know oneself but only narrate oneself.”

What is an adult? A child blown up by age.

She was ready to deny the existence of space and time rather than admit that love might not be eternal.

I could see no reason for being sad. It´s just that it makes me unhappy not to feel happy.

To lose confidence in one’s body is to lose confidence in oneself.

One’s life has value so long as one attributes value to the life of others, by means of love, friendship, indignation and compassion.

Ethics is the triumph of freedom over facticity.

One is not born a genius, one becomes a genius; and the feminine situation has up to the present rendered this becoming practically impossible.

There is only one solution if old age is not to be an absurd parody of our former life, and that is to go on pursuing ends that give our existence a meaning.

I was made for another planet altogether. I mistook the way.

Self-knowledge is no guarantee of happiness, but it is on the side of happiness and can supply the courage to fight for it.

The word love has by no means the same sense for both sexes, and this is one cause of the serious misunderstandings that divide them.

Because we are separated everything separates us, even our efforts to join each other.

One’s life has value so long as one attributes value to the life of others.

When someone you love dies you pay for the sin of outliving her with a thousand piercing regrets.

The sin of smiling whilst Louise was weeping, the sin of shedding my own tears and not hers. The sin of being another being.

One always has to wait until the sugar melts, the memory dies, the wound scars over, the sun sets, the unhappiness lifts and fades away.

To live life well is to express life poorly; if one expresses life too well, one is living it no longer.

Let us not search for the guilty ones only among others, let us speak the bitter truth: we are all guilty each and every one of us.

Poetry is one of the destinies of speech… One would say that the poetic image, in its newness, opens a future to language.

Nursing is one of the Fine Arts: I had almost said, the finest of Fine Arts.

My love had grown one with my soul; it became darker, but did not go out.

In the menu, there should be a climax and a culmination. Come to it gently. One will suffice.

I have always thought the suicide should bump off at least one swine before taking off for parts unknown.

The more constraints one imposes, the more one frees one’s self. And the arbitrariness of the constraint serves only to obtain precision of execution.