memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away

London is full of women who trust their husbands. One can always recognize them. They look so thoroughly unhappy.

That is the mission of art - to make us pause and look at a thing a second time.

Life is a nightmare that prevents one from sleeping.

This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.

Behind Joy and Laughter there may be a temperament, coarse, hard and callous. But behind Sorrow there is always Sorrow. Pain, unlike Pleasure, wears no mask.

But we never get back our youth… The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to.