He never went out without a book under his arm, and he often came back with two.

On this point, the priest and the philosopher agree: We must die.

To lie a little is not possible: he who lies, lies the whole lie.

Let us say it now: to be blind and to be loved, is indeed, upon this earth where nothing is complete, one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness.

The most beautiful of altars, he said, is the soul of an unhappy creature consoled and thankfing God.

The need of the immaterial is the most deeply rooted of all needs. One must have bread; but before bread, one must have the ideal.

To love beauty is to see light.