The greatest mercy, I have often thought, of the Mediterranean coast lies in its mosquitoes. Did we not suffer from their unwelcome attention, we could not bear our holidays to end.

Really, trees are nearly as important as men, and much better behaved.

Youth knows no remedy for grief but death.

Why, why, when one writes, does a sort of shackle bind one's imagination? I become conscious of a deadening mediocrity, perhaps a form of mental cowardice, and I long to break free, to let my imagination take wings. It doesn't - yet.

Those who prepare for war get it.

Oh, time betrays us. Time is the great enemy.

But questioning does not mean the end of loving, and loving does not mean the abnegation of intelligence