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.
I should have been happy: I wasn’t.
We think and name in one world, we live and feel in another.
One becomes moral as soon as one is unhappy.
There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favorite book.
We live not alone but chained to a creature of a different kingdom: our body.