Love is not to be proven or measured. . . It exists, and that is enough.
What will be the death of me are buillabaisses, food spiced with pimiento, shellfish, and a load of exquisite rubbish which I eat in disproportionate quantities.
If you shut up truth and bury it under the ground, it will but grow, and gather to itself such explosive power that the day it bursts through it will blow up everything in its way.
If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud.
Civilization will not attain to its perfection until the last stone from the last church falls on the last priest.
I would rather die of passion than of boredom.
Nothing develops intelligence like travel.
What I see is teeming cohesion, contained dispersal. . . For him, to sculpt is to take the fat off space.
My father had osteomyelitis-his left arm was withered between his elbow and his shoulder. . . . But the amputation of a Stone Age man called Leaf, a stoneworker, does not relate to my father at all.
Paradoxes are the only truths.
Love always leaves a significant mark.