What more ghastly image can be called up than that of a man betrayed by his body who, simply because he did not die in time, lives out the comedy while awaiting the end, face to face with that God he does not adore, serving him as he served life, kneeling before a void and arms outstretched toward a heaven without eloquence that he knows to be also without depth?

To abandon oneself to principles is really to die - and to die for an impossible love which is the contrary of love.

But it's not easy. I've been thinking it over for years. While we loved each other we didn't need words to make ourselves understood. But people don't love forever. A time came when I should have found the words to keep her with me, only I couldn't.

We always deceive ourselves twice about the people we love - first to their advantage, then to their disadvantage.

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.

Great feelings take with them their own universe, splendid or abject.

The temptation shared by all forms of intelligence: cynicism.