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.

...that melancholy which we feel when we cease to obey orders which, from one day to another, keep the future hidden, and realise that we have at last begun to live in real earnest, as a grown-up person, the life, the only life that any of us has at his disposal.

Most of the supposed expressions of our feelings merely relieve us of them by drawing them out of us in an indistinct form that does not teach us to know them.

We can only be faithful to what we remember, and we remember only what we have known.

The only true voyage of discovery, . . . would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes.

The truth is that every morning war is declared afresh. And the men who wish to continue it are as guilty as the men who began it, more guilty perhaps, for the latter perhaps did not foresee all its horrors.

After a certain age, the more one becomes oneself, the more obvious one's family traits become.