The tomb is not a blind alley: it is a thoroughfare. It closes on the twilight. It opens on the dawn.

As with stomachs, we should pity minds that do not eat.

Table talk and Lovers' talk equally elude the grasp; Lovers' talk is clouds, table talk is smoke.

Rhyme, that enslaved queen, that supreme charm of our poetry, that creator of our meter.

I met in the street a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat worn, his cloak was out at the elbows, the water passed through his shoes, - and the stars through his soul.

Dry happiness is like dry bread. We eat, but we do not dine. I wish for the superfluous, for the useless, for the extravagant, for the too much, for that which is not good for anything.

Blessed be Providence which has given to each his toy: the doll to the child, the child to the woman, the woman to the man, the man to the devil!