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.

His heart is a desert island.... The whole scope, the whole energy of his mind surround and protect him; his depths isolate him and guard him against the truth. He flatters himself that he is entirely alone there.... Patience, dear lady. Perhaps, one day, he will discover some footprint on the sand.... What holy and happy terror, what salutary fright, once he recognizes in that pure sign of grace that his island is mysteriously inhabited!

It is a law of nature that we defend ourselves from one affection only by means of another.

A real writer can be recognized by the fact he doesn't find words. Therefore he must search for them and while doing that, he finds better ones.

The trouble with our times is that the future is not what it used to be.

That which has always been accepted by everyone, everywhere, is almost certain to be false.

Whoever wants to accomplish great things must devote to a lot of profound thought to details.