You make the mistake of thinking you have to choose, that you have to do what you want, that there are conditions for happiness. What matters – all that matters, really – is the will to happiness, a kind of enormous, everpresent consciousness. The rest – women, art, suecess – is nothing but excuses. A canvas waiting for our embroideries.
We always deceive ourselves twice about the people we love – first to their advantage, then to their disadvantage.
The world is always satisfied, it turns out, with a countenance it can understand. Indolence and cowardice do the rest. Independence is earned by a few words of cheap confidence.
The world always says the same thing. And in that patient truth which proceeds from star to star is established a freedom that releases us from ourselves and from others, as in that other patient truth which proceeds from death to death.