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

But happiness is brittle, and if men and circumstances don't destroy it, it is threatened by ghosts.

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.

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

[On travel:] Who would be so besotted as to die without having made at least the round of this, his prison?

The written word has taught me to listen to the human voice, much as the great unchanging statues have taught me to appreciate bodily motions.