The thought is a deed. Of all deeds she fertilizes the world most.
She was cold by nature, self-love predominating over passion; rather than being virtuous, she preferred to have her pleasures all to herself.
A ruined man fell from her hands like a ripe fruit, to lie rotting on the ground.
The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work.
I would rather die of passion than of boredom.
Why is it that my heart is so touched whenever I meet a dog lost in our noisy streets? Why do I feel such anguished pity when I see one of these creatures coming and going, sniffing everyone, frightened, despairing of even finding its master?