I love everything that makes up a milieu, the rolling of the carriages and the noise of the workmen in Paris, the cries of a thousand birds in the country, the movement of the ships on the waters. I love also absolute, profound silence, and, in short, I love everything that is around me, no matter where I am.

Simplicity, a delicate silence about oneself, increases their worth and makes one love those whom one admires.

It is a mistake to regard age as a downhill grade toward dissolution. The reverse is true. As one grows older, one climbs with surprising strides.

... love is too delicate a flower to rise again when one has trampled it under foot.

Years do not always make age.

No human being can control love, and no one is to blame either for feeling it or for losing it. What alone degrades a woman is falsehood.

Try to keep your soul young and quivering right up to old age.