Perhaps the immobility of the things that surround us is forced upon them by our conviction that they are themselves, and not anything else, and by the immobility of our conceptions of them.

Now are the woods all black, But still the sky is blue.

People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad.

Less disappointing than life, great works of art do not begin by giving us all their best.

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'.

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

The only true voyage would be not to travel through a hundred different lands, but to see the same land through a hundred different pairs of eyes.