Love is not a fire to be shut up in a soul. Everything betrays us: voice, silence, eyes; half-covered fires burn all the brighter.

My only hope lies in my despair.

My death, taking the light from my eyes, gives back to the day the purity which they soiled.

Can a faith that does nothing be called sincere?

He who has far to ride spares his horse.

According as the man is, so must you humour him.

If I could believe that this was said sincerely, I could put up with anything.