I am unable to understand how a man of honor could take a newspaper in his hands without a shudder of disgust.

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Life has but one true charm: the charm of the game. But what if we’re indifferent to whether we win or lose?

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But what does it matter what reality is outside myself, so long as it has helped me to live, to feel that I am, and what I am?

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Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally; goodness is always the product of some art.

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A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors.

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To handle a language skillfully is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.

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I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy.

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I should like the fields tinged with red, the rivers yellow and the trees painted blue. Nature has no imagination.

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Genius is nothing more nor less than childhood recaptured at will.

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Passion I hate, and spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently.

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