With some people there is such a thing as the habit of betrayal.
Many events seem to happen twice to me; even trifles, unimportant-seeming, recur, as if I were destined to live them again, time reconquered, but with added knowledge and a different outcome.
Truth, like surgery, may hurt, but it cures.
Moralists have no place in an art gallery.
One should never condemn what one cannot understand.
Love can never explain the loved one, my dear. It is the essence of wild unreason.