If we have anything kind to say, any tender sentiment to express, we feel a sense of shame.

Each of us is the only person who can give the other what each of us wants to have: Peace.

The spontaneity of slaps is sincerity, whereas the ceremonial of caresses is largely convention.

Nature is honest, we aren't; we embalm our dead.

At any given moment, I open my eyes and exist. And before that, during all eternity, what was there? Nothing.

There is always a certain peace in being what one is, in being that completely.

Sisterly love is, of all sentiments, the most abstract. Nature does not grant it any functions.