Criticism occupies the lowest place in the literary hierarchy: as regards form, almost always; and as regards moral value, incontestably. It comes after rhyming games and acrostics, which at least require a certain inventiveness.

Travel makes one modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.

Madame Aubain's servant Felicite was the envy of the ladies of Pont-l'Eveque for half a century.

The deplorable mania of doubt exhausts me. I doubt about everything, even my doubts.

It seems to me that I have always existed and that I possess memories that date back to the Pharaohs.

Are the days of winter sunshine just as sad for you, too? When it is misty, in the evenings, and I am out walking by myself, it seems to me that the rain is falling through my heart and causing it to crumble into ruins.

She would have liked not to be alive, or to be always asleep.