She's got feet like boats, whiskers like an American, and her undies are filthy.

People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad.

Habit is a second nature which prevents us from knowing the first, of which it has neither the cruelties nor the enchantments.

But sometimes illumination comes to our rescue at the very moment when all seems lost; we have knocked at every door and they open on nothing until, at last, we stumble unconsciously against the only one through which we can enter the kingdom we have sought in vain a hundred years - and it opens.

We were resigned to suffering, thinking that we loved outside ourselves, and we perceive that our love is a function of our sorrow, that our love perhaps is our sorrow.

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.

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