Avevo la coscienza in disordine. Ho fatto cilecca in un bel po’ di cose.

Per me, ciccino mio.

Tout ce qui n’est ni une couleur, ni un parfum, ni une musique, c’est de l’enfantillage.

Savoir qu’il existe des passions et ne pas les ressentir, c’est affreux.

Procrastination is a prelude in a minor key.

I’m full of despair and yet, at the same time, I’m horribly happy. It’s a nice kind of feeling to want something as badly as that.

Mais enfin, bande de critiques, les livres que vous ne comprenez pas ne vaudraient-ils pas au moins que vous les signaliez? For heaven’s sake, gang of critics, don’t the books which you do not understand at least deserve recognition?

I’m not interested in the happiness of all men, but only in the happiness of each.

It’s not their fault. It’s because they’ve been taught that ‘Work is holy, good and beautiful. It counts above everything else, and the workers alone will inherit the earth.’ Only things have been arranged so that they have to spend all their time working and there’s no time left for the rest of it to come true.

Chansons possibles ou impossibles.