Do you know that charming part of our country which has been called the garden of France - that spot where, amid verdant plains watered by wide streams, one inhales the purest air of heaven?

Poetry is the disease of the brain.

The acts of the human race on the world's stage have doubtless a coherent unity, but the meaning of the vast tragedy enacted will be visible only to the eye of God, until the end, which will reveal it perhaps to the last man.

Silence alone is great; all else is feebleness . . . Perform with all your heart your long and heavy task. . . . Then as do I, say naught, but suffer and die.

Invisible is real. Souls have their own world.

Perform your long and heavy task with energy, treading the path to which Fate has been pleased to call you.

What is a great life? It is the dreams of youth realised in old age.