Since I wasn’t able to leave a succession of beautiful lies, I want to leave the smidgen of truth that the falsehood of everything lets us suppose we can tell.
One never lives so intensely as when one has been thinking hard.
For valuing your own suffering sets on it the gold of a sun of pride. Suffering a lot can originate the illusion of being the Chosen of Pain.
I will be what I want. But I will have to want what I’ll be. Success is in having success, not conditions for success.
Solitude desolates me; company oppresses me.
Smell is a strange sight. It evokes sentimental landscapes through a sudden sketching of the subconscious.
You breathe better when you’re rich.
God gave the sea the danger and the abyss, but it was in it that He mirrored the sky.
We’ve been devastated by the severest and deadliest drought in history – that of our profound awareness of the futility of all effort and the vanity of all plans.
I’d like to be in the country so that I’d could like being in the city.
To narrate is to create, for living is just being lived.
What is art but the denial of life?
I never was but an isolated bon vivant, which is absurd; or a mystic bon vivant, which is an impossible thing.
The slope takes you to the windmill, but effort takes you nowhere.
To think is to destroy. The very process of thought indicates it for the same thought, as thinking is decomposing.
Art consists in making others feel what we feel.
My homeland is the portuguese language.
The world belongs to who doesn’t feel. The primary condition to be a practical man is the absence of sensitivity.
Wasting time has an esthetics to it.
Why is art beautiful? Because it’s useless. Why is life ugly? Because it’s all ends and purposes and intentions.