Old hands soil, it seems, whatever they caress, but they too have their beauty when they are joined in prayer. Young hands were made for caresses and the sheathing of love. It is a pity to make them join too soon.
It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.
In hell there is no other punishment than to begin over and over again the tasks left unfinished in your lifetime.
The sole art that suits me is that which, rising from unrest, tends toward serenity.
Nothing prevents happiness like the memory of happiness.
What would there be in a story of happiness? Only what prepares it, only what destroys it can be told.
