Art consists precisely in making us admire old stories, charming us with them eternally, as Nature charms with her eternal sun, her ancient earth, and her men built all on the same pattern, and all animated by the same feelings.

Life, that is Paris! Paris, that is life!

What am I? Nothing. What would I be? Everything.

I want to live faster, faster, faster! ... I fear that this desire to live always at high pressure is the presage of a short existence. Who knows?

I long to see everything, to know everything, to learn everything!.

... I will never love, for I should never be loved as I desire to be loved.

Time is the most terrible, the most discouraging, the most unconquerable of all obstacles, and one that may exist when no other does.