The soul has illusions as the bird has wings: it is supported by them.

Women play with their beauty as children do with their knives. They wound themselves with it.

My tastes are aristocratic, my actions democratic.

Jean Prouvaire was timid only in repose. Once excited, he burst forth, a sort of mirth accentuated his enthusiasm, and he was at once both laughing and lyric.

A house is built of logs and stone, of tiles and posts and piers; a home is built of loving deeds that stand a thousand years.

God was bored by him.

...Human thought has no limit. At its risk and peril, it analyzes and dissects its own fascination. We could almost say that, by a sort of splendid reaction, it fascinates nature; the mysterious world surrounding us returns what it receives; it is likely that contemplators are contemplated.