Everything ends this way in France — everything. Weddings, christenings, duels, burials, swindlings, diplomatic affairs — everything is a pretext for a good dinner.

Until the day of his death no man can be sure of his courage.

Death is beautiful. It alone gives love its true habitat.

Tragedy is restful: and the reason is that hope, that foul, deceitful thing, has no part in it.

I like reality. It tastes like bread.

Death has to be waiting at the end of the ride before you truly see the earth, and feel your heart, and love the world.

It is restful, tragedy, because one knows that there is no more lousy hope left. You know you're caught, caught at last like a rat with all the world on its back. And the only thing left to do is shout - not moan, or complain, but yell out at the top of your voice whatever it was you had to say. What you've never said before. What perhaps you don't even know till now.