Beauty is unbearable, drives us to despair, offering us for a minute the glimpse of an eternity that we should like to stretch out over the whole of time.
Why should it be essential to love rarely in order to love much?
Martyrs, my friend, have to choose between being forgotten, mocked or used. As for being understood - never.
The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
For if there is a sin against life, it consists perhaps not so much in despairing of life as in hoping for another life and in eluding the implacable grandeur of this life.
A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession.
