But what is memory if not the language of feeling, a dictionary of faces and days and smells which repeat themselves like the verbs and adjectives in a speech, sneaking in behind the thing itself,into the pure present, making us sad or teaching us vicariously.

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Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies.

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I think we all have a little bit of that beautiful madness that keeps us walking when everything around us is so insanely sane.

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Time is born in the eyes, everybody knows that.

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I sometimes longed for someone who, like me, had not adjusted perfectly with his age, and such a person was hard to find; but I soon discovered cats, in which I could imagine a condition like mine, and books, where I found it quite often.

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Come sleep with me: We won't make Love,Love will make us.

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Only in dreams, in poetry, in play do we sometimes arrive at what we were before we were this thing that, who knows, we are.

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Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.

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We no longer believe because it is absurd: it is absurd because we must believe.

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She would smile and show no surprise, convinced as she was, the same as I, that casual meetings are apt to be just the opposite, and that people who make dates are the same kind who need lines on their writing paper, or who always squeeze up from the bottom on a tube of toothpaste.

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