The Christian's God is a God of metamorphoses. You cast grief into his bosom: you draw thence, peace. You cast in despair: 'tis hope that rises to the surface. It is a sinner whose heart he moves. It is a saint who returns him thanks.

The inventory of my faith for this lower world is soon made out. I believe in Him who made it.

There is nothing steadfast in life but our memories. We are sure of keeping intact only that which we have lost.

Time is the shower of Danae; each drop is golden.

The only true method of action in this world is to be in it, but not of it.

We are all of us, in this world, more or less like St. January, whom the inhabitants of Naples worship one day, and pelt with baked apples the next.

Real sorrow is almost as difficult to discover as real poverty. An instinctive delicacy hides the rays of the one and the wounds of the other.