Life is a great sunrise. I do not see why death should not be an even greater one.
The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.
A work of art has no importance whatever to society. It is only important to the individual.
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
Some people, and I am one of them, hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm.
Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.
It is hard, I submit, to loathe bloodshed, including war, more than I do, but it is still harder to exceed my loathing of the very nature of totalitarian states in which massacre is only an administrative detail.
Complacency is a state of mind that exists only in retrospective: it has to be shattered before being ascertained.
Caress the detail, the divine detail.
I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.
Satire is a lesson, parody is a game.
The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.
Discussion in class, which means letting twenty young blockheads and two cocky neurotics discuss something that neither their teacher nor they know.
There is nothing in the world that I loathe more than group activity, that communal bath where the hairy and slippery mix in a multiplication of mediocrity.
Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.
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