Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword! Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold. Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.

I wanted to eat of the fruit of all the trees in the garden of the world… And so, indeed, I went out, and so I lived. My only mistake was that I confined myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to me the sun-lit side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its shadow and its gloom.

The tragedy of growing old is not that one is old but that one is young.

One should never listen. To listen is a sign of indifference to one's hearers.

Science can never grapple with the irrational. That is why it has no future before it, in this world.

It is well for his peace that the saint goes to his martyrdom. He is spared the sight of the horror of his harvest.

How does one cure the soul? Through the senses