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.

No human creature can give orders to love.

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

I'm not full of virtues and noble qualities. I love, but I love strongly, exclusive, stedfasty.

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.

No religion can be built on force.

I have no enthusiasm for nature which the slightest chill will not instantly destroy.