A Superhuman Will Is Needed In Order

But The Disparaging Of Those We Love Always Alienates Us From Them To Some Extent. We Must Not Touch Our Idols; The Gilt Comes Off In Our Hands.

One Mustn't Ask Apple Trees For Oranges, France For Sun, Women For Love, Life For Happiness.

The True Poet For Me Is A Priest. As Soon As He Dons The Cassock, He Must Leave His Family.

A Friend Who Dies, It's Something Of You Who Dies.

Love Is A Springtime Plant That Perfumes Everything With Its Hope, Even The Ruins To Which It Clings.