Custom alone regulates morals.

All the good writers of confessions, from Augustine onwards, are men who are still a little in love with their sins.

It is by acts, and not by ideas, that people ensure the bar down the street cannot have a patio.

It is only the poor who pay cash, and that not from virtue, but because they are refused credit.

The truth is that life is delicious, horrible, charming, frightful, sweet, bitter, and that is everything.

A tale without love is like beef without mustard: insipid.

We live between two dense clouds; the forgetting of what was and the uncertainty of what will be.