What I fear is not being forgotten after my death, but, rather, not being enough forgotten. As we were saying, it is not our books that survive, but ….

We know well only what we are deprived of..

Where does discipline end? Where does cruelty begin? Somewhere between these, thousands of children inhabit a voiceless hell..

If you would tell me the heart of a man, tell me not what he reads, but what he rereads..

It seems that, after nineteen centuries of extraordinary glorification, the small Host for which so many cathedrals have sprung up, the small Host th….

I believe that only poetry counts ... A great novelist is first of all a great poet..

Men resemble great deserted palaces: the owner occupies only a few rooms and has closed-off wings where he never ventures..

A man's passion for the mountain is, above all, his childhood which refuses to die..

God does not answer our desperate questionings; he simply gives us himself..

The grandeur of man lies in song, not in thought..

No love, no friendship, can cross the path of our destiny without leaving some mark on it forever..

I write whenever it suits me. During a creative period I write every day; a novel should not be interrupted. When I cease to be carried along, when I….

If the flame inside you goes out, the souls that are next to you will die of cold..

Tell me what you read and I'll tell you who you are is true enough, but I'd know you better if you told me what you reread..

A writer is essentially a man who does not resign himself to loneliness..

The scapegoat has always had the mysterious power of unleashing man's ferocious pleasure in torturing, corrupting, and befouling..

We are, all of us, molded and remolded by those who have loved us, and though that love may pass, we remain none the less their work--a work that ver….

Human love is often but the encounter of two weaknesses..

Did you ever have a conversation with someone who misunderstood everything you had to say? It's exhausting, and the ironic part is that the more you ….

Doubt is nothing but a trivial agitation on the surface of the soul, while deep down there is a calm certainty..

That is the mystery of grace: it never comes too late..