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When you love a city and have explored it frequently on foot, your body, not to mention your soul, gets to know the streets so well after a number of years that in a fit of melancholy, perhaps stirred by a light snow falling ever so sorrowfully, you'll discover your legs carrying you of their own accord toward one of your favorite promontories.

Books, which we mistake for consolation, only add depth to our sorrow.

All great masters, in their work, seek that profound void within color and outside time.

For if a lover's face survives emblazoned on your heart, the world is still your home.

What was venerated as style was nothing more than an imperfection or flaw that revealed the guilty hand.

In actuality, we don’t look for smiles in pictures of bliss, but rather, for the happiness in life itself. Painters know this, but this is precisely what they cannot depict. That’s why they substitute the joy of seeing for the joy of life.

Courage is the highest quality for a soldier, but technology is a fine substitute.

The myriad past, it enters us and disappears. Except that within it, somewhere, like diamonds, exist the fragments that refuse to be consumed. Sifting through, if one dares, and collecting them, one discovers the true design.

The most malicious god is the god of the counted chicken.

I have always preferred maps to books. They don't answer you back.

''The summer has ended. The garden withers. The mornings become chill. I am thirty, I am thirty-four -the years turn dry as leaves.'

Solitude. One knows instinctively it has benefits that must be more deeply satisfying than those of other conditions, but still it is difficult.