Croyez ceux qui cherchent la vérité, doutez de ceux qui la trouvent .

[ In response to being asked who was the greatest nineteenth-century poet :] Hugo,—hélas!

Everything has been said before; but since nobody listens, we have to keep going back and beginning all over again.

Families, I hate you! Shut-in homes, closed doors, jealous possessions of happiness.

Old hands soil, it seems, what they caress; but they too have their beauty when they are joined in prayer. Young hands are made for caresses and the

The most beautiful things are those that madness prompts and reason writes.

Enduring fame is promised only to those writers who can offer to successive generations a substance constantly renewed; for every generation arrives upon the scene with its own particular hunger.

It is easier to lead men to combat and to stir up their passions than to temper them and urge them to the patient labors of peace.

The anxiety we have for the figure we cut, for our personage, is constantly cropping out. We are showing off and are often more concerned with making a display than with living. Whoever feels observed observes himself.

Sadness is almost never anything but a form of fatigue.