A tempest ceases, a cyclone passes over, a wind dies down, a broken mast can be replaced, a leak can be stopped, a fire extinguished, but what will become of this enormous brute of bronze?

To rove about, musing, that is to say loitering, is, for a philosopher, a good way of spending time, especially in that kind of mock rurality, ugly but odd, and partaking of two natures, which surrounds certain large cities, particularly Paris.

Love is like a tree, it grows of its own accord, it puts down deep roots into our whole being.

The ox suffers, the cart complains.

When the heart is dry the eye is dry.

[T]he small is great, the great is small; all is in equilibrium in necessity.

Strange to say, the luminous world is the invisible world; the luminous world is that which we do not see. Our eyes of flesh see only night.