Not one word, not one gesture of yours shall I, could I, ever forget.
He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.
What a strange illusion it is to suppose that beauty is goodness.
There will be today, there will be tomorrow, there will be always, and there was yesterday, and there was the day before.
Is it possible to say what one really feels?
The more we live by our intellect, the less we understand the meaning of life.