I've made a terrible confession to you, he concluded gloomily. Do appreciate it, gentlemen. And it's not enough, not enough to appreciate it, you must not just appreciate it, it should also be precious to you, and if not, if this, too, goes past your souls, then it means you really do not respect me, gentlemen. I tell you that, and I will die of shame at having confessed to such men as you.

Love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams.

There is only one thing that I dread: not to be worthy of my sufferings.

Reality is infinitely diverse, compared with even the subtlest conclusions of abstract thought, and does not allow of clear-cut and sweeping distinctions. Reality resists classification.

Just take a look around you: Blood is flowing in rivers and in such a jolly way you’d think it was champagne.

For men are made for happiness, and any one who is completely happy has a right to say to himself, 'I am doing God's will on earth.'

Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth.