For what we suppose to be our love or our jealousy is never a single, continuous and indivisible passion. It is composed of an infinity of successive loves, of different jealousies, each of which is ephemeral, although by their uninterrupted multiplicity they give us the impression of continuity, the illusion of unity.

In his younger days a man dreams of possessing the heart of the woman whom he loves; later, the feeling that he possesses the heart of a woman may be enough to make him fall in love with her.

The duty and the task of a writer are those of an interpreter.

Griefs, at the moment when they change into ideas, lose some of their power to injure our heart.

What a profound significance small things assume when the woman we love conceals them from us.

The true voyage of discovery is not a journey to a new place; it is learning to see with new eyes.

A work should convey its entire meaning by itself, imposing it on the spectator even before he knows what the subject is.