Each dream finds at last its form; there is a drink for every thirst, and love for every heart. And there is no better way to spend your life than in the unceasing preoccupation of an idea--of an ideal.

On spinach: I dislike it, and am happy to dislike it because if I liked it I would eat it, and I cannot stand it.

And he beholds the moon; like a rounded fragment of ice filled with motionless light.

Me and my books in the same apartment, like a gherkin in its vinegar.

Thought is the greatest of pleasures —pleasure itself is only imagination—have you ever enjoyed anything more than your dreams?

She loved the sea for its storms alone, cared for vegetation only when it grew here and there among ruins. She had to extract a kind of personal advantage from things and she rejected as useless everything that promised no immediate gratification — for her temperament was more sentimental than artistic, and what she was looking for was emotions, not scenery.

Stupidity lies in wanting to draw conclusions.