She regarded books as the emblems of secret brotherhood. A man with this sort of library couldn't possibly hurt her.

She had an overwhelming desire to tell him, like the most banal of women. Don't let me go, hold me tight, make me your plaything, your slave, be strong! But they were words she could not say. The only thing she said when he released her from his embrace was, "You don't know how happy I am to be with you." That was the most her reserved nature allowed her to express.

A man is responsible for his ignorance.

Necessity, weight, and value are three concepts inextricably bound: only necessity is heavy, and only what is heavy has value.

Love is a battle, and I plan to go on fighting. To the end.

There is no perfection only life

Youth is terrible: it is a stage trod by children in buskins and a variety of costumes mouthing speeches they've memorized and fanatically believe but only half understand. And history is terrible because it so often ends up a playground for the immature; a playground for the young Nero, a playground for the young Bonaparte, a playground for the easily roused mobs of children whose simulated passions and simplistic poses suddenly metamorphose into a catastrophically real reality.