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.

Doubt … is an illness that comes from knowledge and leads to madness.

Anything becomes interesting if you look at it long enough.

The public wants work which flatters its illusions.

Beautiful things spoil nothing.

A superhuman will is needed in order to write, and I am only a man.

(Egypt) is a great place for contrasts: splendid things gleam in the dust.