The tragedy of love is not death or separation. How long do you think it would have been before one or other of them ceased to care? Oh, it is dreadfully bitter to look at a woman whom you have loved with all your heart and soul, so that you felt you could not bear to let her out of your sight, and realize that you would not mind if you never saw her again. The tragedy of love is indifference.

I made up my mind long ago that life was too short to do anything for myself that I could pay others to do for me.

Nothing more predisposes someone in our favour than to let him rob you a little.

What mean and cruel things men can do for the love of God.

One cannot find peace in work or in pleasure, in the world or in a convent, but only in one's soul.

Why should you think that beauty, which is the most precious thing in the world, lies like a stone on the beach for the careless passer-by to pick up idly? Beauty is something wonderful and strange that the artist fashions out of the chaos of the world in the torment of his soul. And when he has made it, it is not given to all to know it. To recognize it you must repeat the adventure of the artist. It is a melody that he sings to you, and to hear it again in your own heart you want knowledge and sensitiveness and imagination.

The future will one day be the present and will seem as unimportant as the present does now.