He who has waited long enough, will wait forever. And there comes the hour when nothing more can happen and nobody more can come and all is ended but the waiting that knows itself in vain.
Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me! Stay with me!
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench
Habit is a great deadener.
Humbly to ask a favour of people who are on the point of knocking your brains out sometimes produces good results.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
What was God doing with himself before the creation?
All I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.
It was the only way to progress, to stop.
Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.
The essential doesn't change.
I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.
I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
All this business of a labour to accomplish, before I can end, of words to say, a truth to recover, in order to say it, before I can end, of an imposed task, once known, long neglected, finally forgotten, to perform, before I can be done with speaking, done with listening, I invented it all, in the hope it would console me, help me to go on, allow me to think of myself as somewhere on a road, moving, between a beginning and an end, gaining ground, losing ground, getting lost, but somehow in the long run making headway.
To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.
Birth was the death of him.
Do we mean love, when we say love?
Sometimes I wonder if I'm in my right mind. Then it passes off and I'm as intelligent as ever.
All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
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