Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.

But when the door shuts on us, all that vanishes. The shell-like covering which our souls have excreted to house themselves, to make for themselves a shape distinct from others, is broken, and there is left of all these wrinkles and roughnesses a central oyster of perceptiveness, an enormous eye. How beautiful a street is in winter!

Safe! safe! safe!' the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry 'Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.

Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.

It seems as if an age of genius must be succeeded by an age of endeavour; riot and extravagance by cleanliness and hard work.

No, I'm not clever. I've always cared more for people than for ideas.

In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.