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

We are at times too ready to believe that the present is the only possible state of things.

We do not succeed in changing things according to our desire, but gradually our desire changes.

At a certain age, we have already been struck by love; it no longer develops alone, according to its own mysteries and fateful laws while our hearts stand by startled and passive. We come to its assistanceRecognizing one of its symptoms, we recall, we bring back to life the others. Since we possess its song engraved in its totality within us, we do not need for a woman to tell us the beginning--filled with admiration inspired by beauty--to find the continuation.

Love is a striking example of how little reality means to us.

But when one believes in the reality of things, making them visible by artificial means is not quite the same as feeling that they are close at hand.

No man is a complete mystery except to himself.