There is no French town in which the wounds inflicted on the battle-field are not bleeding.

The swimmer adrift on the open seas measures his strength, and strives with all his muscles to keep himself afloat. But what is he to do when there is no land on the horizon, and none beyond it?

We can know nothing till after this grave debate. The soul must withdraw, for this is not its hour. Now the knife must divide the flesh, and lay the ravage bare, and do its work completely.

When you are in it up to your ears, keep your mouth shut.

It is strange what a contempt men have for the joys that are offered them freely.

We do not know the true value of our moments until they have undergone the test of memory. Like the images the photographer plunges into a golden bath, our sentiments take on color; and only then, after that recoil and that trans-figuration, do we understand their real meaning and enjoy them in all their tranquil splendor.

I have too much respect for the idea of God to make it responsible for such an absurd world.