The memory of most men is an abandoned cemetery where lie, unsung and unhonored, the dead whom they have ceased to cherish. Any lasting grief is reproof to their neglect.

We say: mad with joy. We should say: wise with grief.

The true birthplace is that wherein for the first time one looks intelligently upon oneself; my first homelands have been books, and to a lesser degree schools.

All happiness is a form of innocence.

In the evenings the art of building gave way to that of music, which is architecture, too, though invisible.

This morning it occurred to me for the first time that my body, my faithful companion and friend, truer and better known to me than my own soul, may be after all only a sly beast who will end by devouring his master.

Morals are a matter of private agreement; decency is of public concern.