But alas, if I have not maintained my victory, it is God's fault for not making man and the devil of equal strength.

Whatever causes night in our souls may leave stars. Cimourdain was full of virtues and truth, but they shine out of a dark background.

It is by suffering that human beings become angels.

The production of souls is the secret of unfathomable depth.

The most ferocious animals are disarmed by caresses to their young.

While contemplating the bride, and eyeing the cake of soap, he muttered between his teeth: 'Tuesday. It was not Tuesday. Was it Tuesday? Perhaps it was Tuesday. Yes, it was Tuesday.' No one has ever discovered to what this monologue referred. Yes, perchance, this monologue had some connection with the last occasion on which he had dined, three days before, for it was now Friday.

The ode lives upon the ideal, the epic upon the grandiose, the drama upon the real.