Reality does not conform to the ideal, but confirms it.

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.

Through small apertures we glimpse abysses whose sombre depths turn us faint. And yet over the whole there hovers an extraordinary tenderness.

The author, in his work, must be like God in the Universe, present everywhere and visible nowhere.

Of all possible debauches, traveling is the greatest that I know; that's the one they invented when they got tired of all the others.

I have dreamed much and have done very little.

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