Masterpieces are no more than the shipwrecked flotsam of great minds.

In his younger days a man dreams of possessing the heart of the woman whom he loves; later, the feeling that he possesses the heart of a woman may be enough to make him fall in love with her.

The charms of the passing woman are generally in direct ratio to the swiftness of our passage.

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

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

We only really know what is new, what suddenly introduces to our sensibility a change of tone which strikes us, that for which habit has not yet substituted its pale fac-similes.

It is often hard to bear the tears that we ourselves have caused.