The memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment.

It is not because other people are dead that our affection for them grows faint, it is because we ourselves are dying.

Now are the woods all black, But still the sky is blue.

Our memory is like a shop in the window of which is exposed now one, now another photograph of the same person. And as a rule the most recent exhibit remains for some time the only one to be seen.

Lies are essential to humanity. They are perhaps as important as the pursuit of pleasure and moreover are dictated by that pursuit.

Pleasures are like photographs: in the presence of the person we love, we take only negatives, which we develop later, at home, when we have at our disposal once more our inner dark room, the door of which it is strictly forbidden to open while others are present.

When you work to please others you can't succeed, but the things you do to satisfy yourself stand a chance of catching someone's interest.