For a long time now my heart has had its shutters closed, its steps deserted, formerly a tumultuous hotel, but now empty and echoing like a great empty tomb.

Everything is there: the love of Art.

I have patience in all things - as far as the antechamber.

Sentences must stir in a book like leaves in a forest, each distinct from each despite their resemblance.

How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.

Our ignorance of history causes us to slander our own times.

Remembering the ball became for Emma a daily occupation. Every time Wednesday came round, she told herself when she woke up: 'Ah! One week ago...two weeks ago...three weeks ago, I was there!' And, little by little, in her memory, the faces all blurred together; she forgot the tunes of the quadrilles; no longer could she so clearly picture the liveries and the rooms; some details disappeared, but the yearning remained.