People don't know when they are happy. They're never so unhappy as they think they are.

What we have not had to decipher, to elucidate by our own efforts, what was clear before we looked at it, is not ours. From ourselves comes only that which we drag forth from the obscurity which lies within us, that which to others is unknown.

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.

As soon as he ceased to be mad he became merely stupid. There are maladies we must not seek to cure because they alone protect us from others that are more serious.

One becomes moral as soon as one is unhappy.

Friendship is in the end no more than: " . . . a lie which seeks to make us believe that we are not irremediably alone."

When I am not too sad to listen, music is my consolation.