Humanity is outraged in me and with me. We must not dissimulate nor try to forget this indignation, which is one of the most passionate forms of love.

Butterflies are but flowers that blew away one sunny day when Nature was feeling at her most inventive and fertile.

Life is a slate where all our sins are written; from time to time we rub the sponge of repentance over it so we can begin sinning again.

When they are among us cats are angels

The old woman I shall become will be quite different from the woman I am now. Another I is beginning.

We must love stupid people better than ourselves; are they not the really unfortunate ones of this world? Do not people without taste and without ideal grow constantly weary, rejoicing in nothing, and being quite useless here below?

One approaches the journey's end. But the end is a goal, not a catastrophe.