You can't learn the truth about a man's intentions by asking him.
Our intellect is not the most subtle, the most powerful, the most appropriate, instrument for revealing the truth. It is life that, little by little, example by example, permits us to see that what is most important to our heart, or to our mind, is learned not by reasoning but through other agencies. Then it is that the intellect, observing their superiority, abdicates its control to them upon reasoned grounds and agrees to become their collaborator and lackey.
Even though our lives wander, our memories remain in one place.
Love is space and time measured by the heart.
We think and name in one world, we live and feel in another.
Love is a striking example of how little reality means to us.
An hour is not merely an hour, it is a vase full of scents and sounds and projects and climates.
Sometimes in this life, under the stress of an exceptional emotion, people do say what they think.
We do not receive wisdom, we must discover it for ourselves, after a journey through the wilderness which no one else can make for us, which no one can spare us, for our wisdom is the point of view from which we come at last to regard the world.
If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time.
Reading is that fruitful miracle of a communication in the midst of solitude.
In a separation it is the one who is not really in love who says the more tender things.
A picture's beauty does not depend on the things portrayed in it.
Time, which changes people, does not alter the image we have retained of them.
Desire makes everything blossom
We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full.
Through art alone are we able to emerge from ourselves, to know what another person sees of a universe which is not the same as our own and of which, without art, the landscapes would remain as unknown to us as those that may exist on the moon.
Thanks to art, instead of seeing one world, our own, we see it multiplied and as many original artists as there are, so many worlds are at our disposal.
There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favorite book.
Truth is a point of view about things.
Just as those who practice the same profession recognize each other instinctively, so do those who practice the same vice.
The memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment.
What barrier is so insurmountable as silence?
The time at our disposal each day is elastic; the passions we feel dilate it, those that inspire us shrink it, and habit fills it.
People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad.
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