There comes a point at which you stop writing and think all the more

You don’t make art out of good intentions.

One mustn't ask apple trees for oranges, France for sun, women for love, life for happiness.

Woman is a vulgar animal from whom man has created an excessively beautiful ideal.

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.

The great natures which are good, are above everything generous and don't begrudge the giving of themselves.

The hearts of women are like those little pieces of furniture with secret hiding - places, full of drawers fitted into each other; you go a lot of trouble, break your nails, and in the bottom find some withered flower, a few grains of dust - or emptiness!