It is the perpetual dread of fear, the fear of fear, that shapes the face of a brave man.

I know the compassion of others is a relief at first. I don't despise it. But it can't quench pain, it slips through your soul as through a sieve. And when our suffering has been dragged from one pity to another, as from one mouth to another, we can no longer respect or love it.

Hell, madame, is to love no longer.

Have you never been moved by poor men's fidelity, the image of you they form in their simple minds? Why should you always talk of their envy, without understanding that what they ask of you is not so much your worldly goods, as something very hard to define, which they themselves can put no name to; yet at times it consoles their loneliness; a dream of splendor, of magnificence, a tawdry dream, a poor man's dream -and yet God blesses it!

Optimism approves of everything, submits to everything, believes everything; it is the virtue above all of the taxpayer.

What does it matter, all is grace.

Faith is not a thing which one loses, we merely cease to shape our lives by it.