I Have The Handicap Of Being Born

He Loved A Book Because It Was A Book; He Loved Its Odor, Its Form, Its Title. What He Loved In A Manuscript Was Its Old Illegible Date, The Bizarre And Strange Gothic Characters, The Heavy Gilding Which Loaded Its Drawings. It Was Its Pages Covered With Dust — Dust Of Which He Breathed The Sweet And Tender Perfume With Delight.

Woman Is A Vulgar Animal From Whom Man Has Created An Excessively Beautiful Ideal.

Doesn't It Seem To You," Asked Madame Bovary, "that The Mind Moves More Freely In The Presence Of That Boundless Expanse, That The Sight Of It Elevates The Soul And Gives Rise To Thoughts Of The Infinite And The Ideal?

I Detest My Fellow-beings And Do Not Feel That I Am Their Fellow At All

A Friend Who Dies, It's Something Of You Who Dies.