Let us be grateful to people who make us happy.

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

Those whose suffering is due to love are, as we say of certain invalids, their own physicians.

...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.

There is no doubt that a person's charms are less frequently a cause of love than a remark such as: 'No, this evening I shan't be free'.

It is not because other people are dead that our affection for them grows faint, it is because we ourselves are dying.

There is no more ridiculous custom than the one that makes you express sympathy once and for all on a given day to a person whose sorrow will endure as long as his life. Such grief, felt in such a way is always present, it is never too late to talk about it, never repetitious to mention it again.