The entire history of mankind is, in any case, nothing but a prolonged fight to the death for the conquest of universal prestige and absolute power.

That's love, giving everything, sacrificing all without hope of return.

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

There are always reasons for murdering a man. But there is no justification for his existence.

A sub-clerk in the post-office is the equal of a conqueror if consciousness is common to them.

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

There is not one talent for living and another for creating. The same suffices for both. And one can be sure that the talent that could not produce but an artificial work could not sustain but a frivolous life.