Love is not vain because it is frustrated, but because it is fulfilled. The people we love turn to ashes when we posess them.

There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favorite book.

The bonds that unite another person to our self exist only in our mind.

The soldier is convinced that a certain indefinitely extendable time period is accorded him before he is killed, the burglar before he is caught, men in general, before they must die. That is the amulet which preserves individuals — and sometimes populations — not from danger, but from the fear of danger, in reality from the belief in danger, which in some cases allows them to brave it without being brave. Such a confidence, just as unfounded, supports the lover who counts on a reconciliation, a letter.

Perfume is that last and best reserve of the past, the one which when all out tears have run dry, can make us cry again!

...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.

When I am not too sad to listen, music is my consolation.