However incoherent a human existence may be, human unity is not bothered by it.

The old Paris is no more (the form of a city changes faster, alas! than a mortal's heart).

This life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to change beds; one man would like to suffer in front of the stove, and another believes that he would recover his health beside the window.

Love is the natural occupation of the man of leisure.

Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.

Anybody, providing he knows how to be amusing, has the right to talk about himself.

Nothing can be done except little by little.