I found that the more I thought, the more details, half-forgotten or malobserved, floated up from my memory. There seemed no end to them. So I learned that even after a single day's experience of the outside world a man could easily live a hundred years in prison. He'd have laid up enough memories never to be bored.
What mattered was to humble himself, to organize his heart to match the rhythm of the days instead of submitting their rhythm to the curve of human hopes.
Love is injustice, but justice doesn't suffice.
To feel one's ties to a land, one's love for certain men, to know there is always a place where the heart can find rest—these are already many certainties for one man's life.
Ah, mon cher, we are odd, wretched creatures, and if we merely look back over our lives, there's no lack of occasions to amaze and horrify ourselves. Just try.
The hardest thing is to go on living and not to believe in one's own lies.