There was too much hatred in the world; it was manifestly as dangerous as gunpowder, yet people let it lie about, in the way of ignition.

art is at least in part a way of collecting information about the universe.

It appears that even the different parts of the same person do not converse among themselves, do not succeed in learning from each other what are their desires and their intentions.

Life ought to be a struggle of desire toward adventures whose nobility will fertilize the soul.

Everyone realizes that one can believe little of what people say about each other. But it is not so widely realized that even less can one trust what people say about themselves.

I don't believe that to understand is necessarily to pardon, but I feel that to understand makes one forget that one cannot pardon.

Without doubt cats are intellectuals who have been, by some mysterious decree of Providence, deprived of the comfort of the word.