One is happy as a result of one's own efforts, once one knows of the necessary ingredients of happiness-simple tastes, a certain degree of courage, self-denial to a point, love of work, and, above all, a clear conscience. Happiness is no vague dream, of that I now feel certain.

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

You see what stupid folk my publishers are; but they are all alike.

Charity degrades those who receive it and hardens those who dispense it.

The more you lose the right to be jealous, the more so you become!

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

Oblivion is the flower that grows best on graves.