Have you noticed that life, with murders and catastrophes and fabulous inheritances, happens almost exclusively in newspapers?

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

The true masters of the art of living are already happy.

Our entire life, with our fine moral code and our precious freedom, consists ultimately in accepting ourselves as we are.

With God, what is terrible is that one never knows whether it's not just a trick of the devil.

Poor little men, poor little cocks! As soon as they're old enough, they swell their plumage to be conquerors. If they only knew that it's enough to be just a little bit wounded and sad in order to obtain everything without fighting for it.

I like reality. It tastes like bread.