The artist must manage to make posterity believe that he never existed.

In every parting there comes a moment when the beloved is already no longer with us.

For now he was in one of those crises when the soul yields a blurred glimpse of all that it enfolds, like an ocean, tempest-torn, uncovering everything from the seaweed in the shallows to the sands of the abyss.

What baffled him was that there should be all this fuss about something so simple as love.

And he beholds the moon; like a rounded fragment of ice filled with motionless light.

Come, let's be calm: no one incapable of restraint was ever a writer.

No, read in order to live.