The city that I believed was my past, is my future, my present; the years I have spent in Europe are an illusion, I always was (and will be) in
important places?
distinguish cities as the location of events in the past, present, or future
if there will always remain, enough for me to immerse myself in
admiring some random square of parquet floor
I was suddenly worth the trouble
the woods are white or black, one will never sleep.
incapable as he has become of being able to rise to some exceptional situation such as love.
This is because he henceforth belongs body and soul to an imperative practical necessity which demands his constant attention.
None of his gestures will be expansive, none of his ideas generous or far-reaching.
events real or imagined will be seen only as they relate to a welter of similar events, events in which he has not participated, abortive events.
clarity bordering on stupidity, a dog's life.
By contrast, the realistic attitude, inspired by positivism, from Saint Thomas Aquinas to Anatole France, clearly seems to me to be hostile to any intellectual or moral advancement. I loathe it, for it is made up of mediocrity, hate, and dull conceit.
M. Paul Valery recently suggested that an anthology be compiled in which the largest possible number of opening passages from novels be offered
the only discretionary power left me is to close the book,
The circumstantial, needlessly specific nature of each of their notations leads me to believe that they are perpetrating a joke at my expense.
the author has his reasons for burdening me. Nevertheless he is wasting his time, for I refuse to go into his room.
have too unstable a notion of the continuity of life to equate or compare my moments of depression or weakness with my best moments.
Where we really find them again is at the point at which Stendhal has lost them.
Thus the dream finds itself reduced to a mere parenthesis, as is the night.