Certain streets have an atmosphere of their own, a sort of universal fame and the particular affection of their citizens. One of such streets is the Cannebiere, and the jest: "If Paris had a Cannebiere, it would be a little Marseilles" is the jocular expression of municipal pride. I, too, I have been under the spell. For me it has been a street leading into the unknown.

The good author is he who contemplates without marked joy or excessive sorrow the adventures of his soul amongst criticisms.

You can t, in sound morals, condemn a man for taking care of his own integrity. It is his clear duty. And least of all can you condemn an artist pursuing, however humbly and imperfectly, a creative aim. In that interior world where his thought and his emotions go seeking for the experience of imagined adventures, there are no policemen, no law, no pressure of circumstance or dread of opinion to keep him within bounds. Who then is going to say Nay to his temptations if not his conscience?

Even extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence--but more generally takes the form of apathy

Happiness, happiness ... the flavor is with you-with you alone, and you can make it as intoxicating as you please.

The condemned social order has not been built up on paper and ink, and I don't fancy that a combination of paper and ink will ever put an end to it.

In plucking the fruit of memory one runs the risk of spoiling its bloom, especially if it has got to be carried into the market.