With every one, the expectation of a misfortune constitutes a dreadful, punishment. Suffering then assumes the proportions of the unknown, which is the soul's infinite.

Reading brings us unknown friends

Music is of two kinds: one petty, poor, second-rate, never varying, its base the hundred or so phrasings which all musicians understand, a babbling which is more or less pleasant, the life that most composers live.

Men die in despair, while spirits die in ecstasy.

When there is an old maid in the house, a watchdog is unnecessary.

All we are is in the soul.

What a thing of fantasy a woman may become after dusk.