Every man is a book in which God himself writes.

France lost a great novel last night.

A day will come when there will be no battlefields, but markets opening to commerce and minds opening to ideas.

No one ever keeps a secret so well as a child.

Symmetry is ennui, and ennui is the very essence of grief and melancholy. Despair yawns.

When two mouths, made sacred by love, draw near to each other to create, it is impossible, that above that ineffable kiss there should not be a thrill in the immense mystery of the stars.

Youth is the future smiling at a stranger, which is itself.