Yet, every now and then, there would pass a young girl, slender, fair and desirable, arousing in young men a not ignoble desire to possess her, and stirring in old men regrets for ecstasy not seized and now forever past.

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

Lovers who love truly do not write down their happiness.

Our passions are ourselves.

Existence would be intolerable if we were never to dream.

God forbids suicide, and is unwilling that his creatures should destroy themselves.

I do not know any reading more easy, more fascinating, more delightful than a catalogue.