She was "a woman of uncertain age.

Instead of seeking new landscapes, develop new eyes.

In a separation it is the one who is not really in love who says the more tender things.

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

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.

Are not the thoughts of the dying often turned towards the practical, painful, obscure, visceral aspect, towards the "seamy side" of death which is, as it happens, the side that death actually presents to them and forces them to feel, and which far more closely resembles a crushing burden, a difficulty in breathing, a destroying thirst, than the abstract idea to which we are accustomed to give the name of Death?

Love is a reciprocal torture.