It Is Love, Not Reason, That Is

Nothing Is Stranger Or More Ticklish Than A Relationship Between People Who Know Each Other Only By Sight, Who Meet And Observe Each Other Daily - No Hourly - And Are Nevertheless Compelled To Keep Up The Pose Of An Indifferent Stranger, Neither Greeting Nor Addressing Each Other, Whether Out Of Etiquette Or Their Own Whim.

We Don't Love Qualities, We Love Persons; Sometimes By Reason Of Their Defects As Well As Of Their Qualities.

Even In A Personal Sense, After All, Art Is An Intensified Life. By Art One Is More Deeply Satisfied And More Rapidly Used Up. It Engraves On The Countenance Of Its Servant The Traces Of Imaginary And Intellectual Adventures, And Even If He Has Outwardly Existed In Cloistral Tranquility, It Leads In The Long Term To Overfastidiousness, Over-refinement, Nervous Fatigue And Overstimulation, Such As Can Seldom Result From A Life Of The Most Extravagant Passions And Pleasures.

A Harmful Truth Is Better Than A Useful Lie.

A Solitary, Unused To Speaking Of What He Sees And Feels, Has Mental Experiences Which Are At Once More Intense And Less Articulate Than Those Of A Gregarious Man.