Little things seem nothing, but they give peace, like those meadow flowers which individually seem odorless but all together perfume the air.

It's a fine thing to rise above pride, but you must have pride in order to do so.

What does the truth matter? Haven't we mothers all given our sons a taste for lies, lies which from the cradle upwards lull them, reassure them, send them to sleep: lies as soft and warm as a breast!

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.

Fear, true fear, is a savage frenzy. Of all the insanities of which we are capable, it is surely the cruelest. There is naught to equal its drive, and naught can survive its thrust.

Hell is not to love anymore.

To be able to share in another's joy, that is the secret of happiness.