Men and women consume one another rapidly in what is called "the act of love," or else settle down to a mild habit of conjugality. We seldom find a mean between these two extremes.

What’s true of all the evils in the world is true of plague as well. It helps men to rise above themselves.

Friendship is not so simple. It is hard to get and takes a long time, but when one ha it one cannot get rid of it, one has to face it.

Old women even forget how to love their sons. The heart gets worn out, Monsieur.

There was a time when I didn’t at any minute have the slightest idea how I could reach the next one. Yes, one can wage war in this world, ape love, torture one’s fellow man, or merely say evil of one’s neighbour while knitting. But, in certain cases, carrying on, merely continuing, is superhuman.

There is not a single true work of art that has not in the end added to the inner freedom insight and life of each person who has known and loved it.

To write is to become disinterested. There is a certain renunciation in art.