It is the end. But of what? The end of France? No. The end of kings? Yes.

She had had sweet dreams, which possibly arose from the fact that her little bed was very white.

First problem. To produce wealth. Second problem. To distribute it.

Nothing can be sadder or more profound than to see a thousand things for the first and last time. To journey is to be born and die each minute...All the elements of life are in constant flight from us, with darkness and clarity intermingled, the vision and the eclipse; we look and hasten, reaching out our hands to clutch; every happening is a bend in the road...and suddenly we have grown old. We have a sense of shock and gathering darkness; ahead is a black doorway; the life that bore us is a flagging horse, and a veiled stranger is waiting in the shadows to unharness us.

Indigestion is charged by God with enforcing morality on the stomach.

There is nothing like a dream to create the future.

Beauty is as useful as the useful. More so, perhaps. (Le beau est aussi utile que l'utile. Plus peut-etre.)