Conscience is a cudgel which all men pick up in order to thwack their neighbors instead of applying it to their own shoulders.

In the silence of their studios, busied for days at a time with works which leave the mind relatively free, painters become like women; their thoughts can revolve around the minor facts of life and penetrate their hidden meaning.

A naked woman is less dangerous than one who spreads her skirt skillfully to cover and exhibit everything at once.

Thought is the only treasure that God sets outside all power and keeps to serve as a secret link among the unhappy.

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?

How sternly we reproach virtue for its failings, how indulgent we are to the better qualities of vice!

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