It seems to me that the soul, when alone with itself and speaking to itself, uses only a small number of words, none of them extraordinary.

Books have the same enemies as people: fire, humidity, animals, weather, and their own content.

To write regular verses destroys an infinite number of fine possibilities, but at the same time it suggests a multitude of distant and totally unexpected thoughts.

Love is acting stupid together.

A difficulty is a light. An insurmountable difficulty is a sun.

In most cases, when the lion, weary of obeying its master, has torn and devoured him, its nerves are pacified and it looks round for another master before whom to grovel.

Man is only man at the surface. Remove the skin, dissect, and immediately you come to machinery.