The publication of a book only brings very paltry results to its author.
Whoever has loved once, knows all that life contains of sorrow and of joy.
Weeds are omnipresent; errors are to be found in the heart of the most lovable.
... love is too delicate a flower to rise again when one has trampled it under foot.
The world will know and understand me someday. But if that day does not arrive, it does not greatly matter. I shall have opened the way for other women.
These tears do me good, they have watered the parched place; perhaps my heart will grow again there!