Of two friends, one is always the slave of the other, although frequently neither acknowledges the fact to himself.

my love had grown one with my soul; it became darker, but did not go out

Love, like fire, goes out without fuel.

Passions are merely ideas in their initial stage.

I was modest--they accused me of being crafty: I became secretive. I felt deeply good and evil--nobody caressed me, everybody offended me: I became rancorous. I was gloomy--other children were merry and talkative. I felt myself superior to them--but was considered inferior: I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world--none understood me: and I learned to hate.

You men do not understand the delights of a glance, of a pressure of the hand... but as for me, I swear to you that, when I listen to your voice, I feel such a deep, strange bliss that the most passionate kisses could not take its place.

My whole life has been merely a succession of miserable and unsuccessful denials of feelings or reason.