The smallest flower is a thought, a life answering to some feature of the Great Whole, of whom they have a persistent intuition.

Passions are no more forgiving than human laws and they reason more justly. Are they not based on a conscience of their own, infallible as an instinct?

The boor covers himself, the rich man or the fool adorns himself, and the elegant man gets dressed.

Is there any instinct more deeply implanted in the heart of man than the pride of protection, a protection which is constantly exerted for a fragile and defenceless creature?

While seeking out the dead, I see nothing but the living.

Marriage must fight constantly against a monster which devours everything: routine.

True love is mixed up with birdlike squabbles, in which the disputants wound each other to the quick; but a quarrel without animus is, on the contrary, apiece of flattery to the dupe's conceit.