The subject of a novel is not the plot. Who remembers what happened to Lucien de Rebempre in the end?

It is impossible to go through life without trust: that is to be imprisoned in the worst cell of all, oneself.

Beauty is like success: we can't love it for long.

It was like having a box of chocolates shut in the bedroom drawer. Until the box was empty it occupied the mind too much.

The economy of a novelist is a little like that of a careful housewife who is unwilling to throw away anything that might perhaps serve its turn.

With Your great schemes, You ruin our happiness like a harvester ruins a mouse's nest: I hate You, God, I hate You as though You existed.

I say that home is where there is a chair and a glass.