Beautiful books are always written in a sort of foreign language.

We have such numerous interests in our lives that it is not uncommon, on a single occasion, for the foundations of a happiness that does not yet exist to be laid down alongside the intensification of a grief from which we are still suffering.

A man of letters, merely by reading a phrase, can estimate exactly the literary merit of its author.

Our shadows, now parallel, now close together and joined, traced an exquisite pattern at our feet.

Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.

... in love, barriers cannot be destroyed from the outside by the one to whom the cause despair, no matter what he does; and it isonly when he is no longer concerned with them that, suddenly, as a result of work coming from elsewhere, accomplished within the one who did not love him, these barriers, formerly attacked without success, fall futilely.

We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full.