There are people whose faces assume an unaccustomed beauty and majesty the moment they cease to look out of their eyes.

In reality, every reader is, while reading, the reader of his own self.

For what we suppose to be our love or our jealousy is never a single, continuous and indivisible passion. It is composed of an infinity of successive loves, of different jealousies, each of which is ephemeral, although by their uninterrupted multiplicity they give us the impression of continuity, the illusion of unity.

Memory nourishes the heart, and grief abates.

The heart does not lie.

For one cannot change, that is to say become another person, while continuing to acquiesce to the feelings of the person one no longer is.

A work in which there are theories is like an object which still has the ticket that shows its price.