Do not trust your memory; it is a net full of holes; the most beautiful prizes slip through it.

Suffering has roused them from the sleep of gentle life, and every day fills them with a terrible intoxication. They are now something more than themselves; those we loved were merely happy shadows.

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

Do not trust your memory; it is a net full of holes; the most beautiful prizes slip through it.

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.

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

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