I have read true piety defined as: loving one’s destiny unconditionally – and there is something in it. That is to say: I think that in a way this sort of “religiousness” is the condition for real happiness.

If only I could so live and so serve the world that after me there should never again be birds in cages.

One does not travel by plane. One is merely sent, like a parcel.

I felt that Paris was illuminated by a splendor possessed by no other places.

There is a particular hapiness in giving a man whom you like very much, good food that you have cooked yourself.

The divine art is the story.

What is life when you come to think upon it, but a most excellent, accurately set, infinitely complicated machine for turning fat playful puppies into old mangy blind dogs, and proud war horses into skinny nags, and succulent young boys, to whom the world holds great delights and terrors, into old weak men, with running eyes, who drink ground rhino-horn?