Great griefs exhaust. They discourage us with life. The man into whom they enter feels something taken from him. In youth, their visit is sad; later on, it is ominous.

All the human and animal manure which the world wastes, if returned to the land, instead of being thrown into the sea, would suffice to nourish the world.

She had had sweet dreams, which possibly arose from the fact that her little bed was very white.

Is there not in every human soul a primitive spark, a divine element, incorruptible in this world and immortal in the next, which can be developed by goodness, kindled, lit up, and made to radiate, and which evil can never entirely extinguish.

Monastic incarceration is castration.

Melancholy is the happiness of being sad.

...Though we chisel away as best we can at the mysterious block from which our life is made, the black vein of destiny continually reappears.