Sensuality Is The Death Of The Soul.

The Key To All Sciences Is Unquestionably The Question Mark. To The Word How? We Owe Most Of Our Greatest Discoveries. Wisdom In Life May Perhaps Consist In Asking Ourselves On All Occasions: Why?

When She Lives At His Palace, The Maiden Niece Of A Bishop Can Pass For A Respectable Woman Because, If She Has A Love Affair, She Is Obliged To Hoodwink Her Uncle.

Several Sorts Of Memory Exist In Us; Body And Mind Each Possesses One Peculiar To Itself. Nostalgia, For Instance, Is A Malady Of The Physical Memory.

There Are Houses In Certain Provincial Towns Whose Aspect Inspires Melancholy, Akin To That Called Forth By Sombre Cloisters, Dreary Moorlands, Or The Desolation Of Ruins. Within These Houses There Is, Perhaps, The Silence Of The Cloister, The Barrenness Of Moors, The Skeleton Of Ruins; Life And Movement Are So Stagnant There That A Stranger Might Think Them Uninhabited, Were It Not That He Encounters Suddenly The Pale, Cold Glance Of A Motionless Person, Whose Half-monastic Face Peers Beyond The Window-casing At The Sound Of An Unaccustomed Step.

The Smallest Flower Is A Thought, A Life Answering To Some Feature Of The Great Whole, Of Whom They Have A Persistent Intuition.