You can calculate the worth of a man by the number of his enemies, and the importance of a work of art by the harm that is spoken of it.

The one way of tolerating existence is to lose oneself in literature as in a perpetual orgy.

In the dark room a cloud of yellow dust flew from beneath the tool like a scatter of sparks from under the hooves of a galloping horse. The twin wheels turned and hummed. Binet was smiling, his chin down, his nostrils distended. He seemed lost in the kind of happiness which, as a rule, accompanies only those mediocre occupations that tickle the intelligence with easy difficulties, and satisfy it with a sense of achievement beyond which there is nothing left for dreams to feed on.

The heart, like the stomach, wants a varied diet.

Beautiful things spoil nothing.

One mustn't look at the abyss, because there is at the bottom an inexpressible charm which attracts us.

Talent is long patience.