Words, as is well known, are great foes of reality.

Illusory joy is often worth more than genuine sorrow.

Action is consolatory. It is the enemy of thought and the friend of illusions.

The last thing a woman will consent to discover in a man whom she loves, or on whom she simply depends, is want of courage.

It is to be remarked that a good many people are born curiously unfitted for the fate waiting them on this earth.

All a man can betray is his conscience.

Who could tell what forms, what visions, what faces, what forgiveness he could see in the glow of the west!

Having had to encounter single-handed during his period of eclipse many physical dangers, he was well aware of the most dangerous element common to them all: of the crushing, paralysing sense of human littleness, which is what really defeats a human struggling with natural forces, alone, far from the eyes of his fellows.

But the truth was that he died from solitude, the enemy known but to few on this Earth, and whom only the simplest of us are fit to withstand. The brilliant Costaguanaro of the boulevards had died from solitude and want of faith in himself and others.

There is no credulity so eager and blind as the credulity of covetness, which, in its universal extent, measures the moral misery and the intellectual destitution of mankind.