The expressions of those moving about a picture gallery show ill-concealed disappointment that they only find pictures there.

I came into the world under the sign of Saturn -- the star of the slowest revolution, the planet of detours and delays.

We have long forgotten the ritual by which the house of our life was erected. But when it is under assault and enemy bombs are already taking their toll, what enervated, perverse antiquities do they not lay bare in the foundations.

Each morning the day lies like a fresh shirt on our bed; this incomparably fine, incomparably tightly woven tissue of pure prediction fits us perfectly. The happiness of the next twenty-four hours depends on our ability, on waking, to pick it up.