Poetry Is As Precise A Thing As

The Better A Work Is, The More It Attracts Criticism; It Is Like The Fleas Who Rush To Jump On White Linens.

Earth Has Its Boundaries, But Human Stupidity Is Limitless.

Madame Aubain's Servant Felicite Was The Envy Of The Ladies Of Pont-l'eveque For Half A Century.

There Are Two Infinities That Confuse Me: The One In My Soul Devours Me; The One Around Me Will Crush Me

Talent Is A Long Patience, And Originality An Effort Of Will And Intense Observation.