In love, such a word, whispered, is a mysterious kiss of the soul to the soul.
Nothing is really small; whoever is open to the deep penetration of nature knows this.
There are souls which, crab-like, crawl continually toward darkness, going back in life rather than advancing in it, using what experience they have to increase their deformity, growing worse without ceasing, and becoming steeped more and more thoroughly in an intensifying wickedness.
Art needs no spur beyond itself.
Nothing awakens reminiscence like an aroma.
Virtue has a veil, vice a mask.