You see what stupid folk my publishers are; but they are all alike.
It is love, not faith, that moves mountains.
Whoever has loved once, knows all that life contains of sorrow and of joy.
To forgive a fault in another is more sublime than to be faultless one’s self.
Fame and admiration weigh not a feather in the scale against friendship and love, for the heart languishes all the same.
One wastes so much time, one is so prodigal of life, at twenty! Our days of winter count for double. That is the compensation of the old.
We must have a passion in life.
Talent, will and genius are natural phenomena like the lake, the volcano, the mountain, the wind, the star, the cloud.
One changes from day to day, and… after a few years have passed one has completely altered.
We do not precisely enjoy liberty at the Figaro. M. de Latouche, our worthy director (ah! you should know the fellow), is always hanging over us, cutting, pruning, right or wrong, imposing upon us his whims, his aberrations, his fancies, and we have to write as he bids.
Death must no longer be either the penalty for prosperity or the consolation of misery. God did not destine it to be either the punishment or the compensation for life.
we do not die of anguish, we live on. We continue to suffer. We drink the cup drop by drop.