Love is a reciprocal torture.

Love is not vain because it is frustrated, but because it is fulfilled. The people we love turn to ashes when we posess them.

At the heart of our friendly or purely social relations, there lurks a hostility momentarily cured but recurring by fits and starts.

Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.

Love is an incurable malady like those pathetic states in which rheumatism affords the sufferer a brief respite only to be replaced by epileptiform headaches.

The most familiar precepts are not always the truest.

Our shadows, now parallel, now close together and joined, traced an exquisite pattern at our feet.