God! how is it that we fail to recognize that the mask of pleasure, stripped of all hypocrisy, is that of anguish?

When writing of oneself one should show no mercy. Yet why at the first attempt to discover one's own truth does all inner strength seem to melt away in floods of self-pity and tenderness and rising tears?

The modern state no longer has anything but rights; it does not recognize duties any more.

But I shall give less thought to the future, I shall work in the present. I feel such work is within my power. For I only succeed in small things, and when I am tried by anxiety, I am bound to say it is the small joys that release me.

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

Hell, madame, is to love no longer.

God! how is it that we fail to recognize that the mask of pleasure, stripped of all hypocrisy, is that of anguish?