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.

Love is a punishment. We are punished for not having been strong enough to remain alone.

The world is big … May it please the One who perchance is to expand the human heart to life's full measure.

I believe that friendship, like love, of which it is a particular kind, requires nearly as much art as a successful choreography.

A touch of madness is, I think, almost always necessary for constructing a destiny.

Passion such as hers is all consent, asking little in return. I had merely to enter a room where she was to see her face take on that peaceful expression of one who is resting in bed. If I touched her, I had the impression that all the blood in her veins was turning to honey.

Since man, fragment of the universe, is governed by the same laws that preside over the heavens, it is by no means absurd to search there above for the themes of our lives, for those frigid sympathies that participate in our achievements as well as our blunderings.