But the heart has its own memory and I have forgotten nothing.

The struggle to the top alone will make a human heart swell.

I would like to be able to breathe— to be able to love her by memory or fidelity. But my heart aches. I love you continuously, intensely.

Lying is not only saying what isn't true. It is also, in fact especially, saying more than is true and, in the case of the human heart, saying more than one feels. We all do it, every day, to make life simpler.

The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

A man's work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened.