The more one judges, the less one loves.

Love is a religion, and its rituals cost more than those of other religions. It goes by quickly and, like a street urchin, it likes to mark its passage by a trail of devastation.

We love because we love.

Vocations which we wanted to pursue, but didn't, bleed, like colors, on the whole of our existence.

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

If the human heart sometimes finds moments of pause as it ascends the slopes of affection, it rarely halts on the way down.

A penniless man who has no ties to bind him is master of himself at any rate, but a luckless wretch who is in love no longer belongs to himself, and may not take his own life. Love makes us almost sacred in our own eyes; it is the life of another that we revere within us; then and so begins for us the cruelest trouble of all.