Let us leave pretty women to men devoid of imagination.
The only paradise is paradise lost.
Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.
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.
An hour is not merely an hour, it is a vase full of scents and sounds and projects and climates.
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.
In a separation it is the one who is not really in love who says the more tender things.
Love is space and time measured by the heart.
When from a long distant past nothing subsists after the things are broken and scattered, the smell and taste of things remain.
All our final decisions are made in a state of mind that is not going to last.
Let us be grateful to people who make us happy.
Sometimes in this life, under the stress of an exceptional emotion, people do say what they think.
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.
The heart does not lie.
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.
We are at times too ready to believe that the present is the only possible state of things.
Reading is that fruitful miracle of a communication in the midst of solitude.
Nine tenths of the ills from which intelligent people suffer spring from their intellect.
Time, which changes people, does not alter the image we have retained of them.
It is often hard to bear the tears that we ourselves have caused.
The artist who gives up an hour of work for an hour of conversation with a friend knows that he is sacrificing a reality for something that does not exist.
If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time.
Even though our lives wander, our memories remain in one place.
Under each station of the real, another glimmers.
There are mountainous, arduous days, up which one takes an infinite time to climb, and downward-sloping days which one can descend at full tilt, singing as one goes.
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