The Sky Is One Whole, The Water

The Shots Had Dispersed The Birds; There Remained Only Two Marabous, Standing Between Ten And Twenty Paces Away And Plunged In Reverie. They Were Like Two Old Men With Bald Heads Pressed Between The Shoulders.

There Is Probably No Greater Idler Than Myself. And I Would Consider Myself A Lazy-bones If I Did Not Write So Many Volumes, And If I Did Not Admire My Diligence Once I Begin Writing.

But I Think Happiness Springs From Another Source, A Far Deeper One That Doesn't Depend On Will Because It Comes From Love.

The Profession Of The Writer Has Its Thorns About Which The Reader Does Not Dream.

But The French Writers Always Had More Originality And Independence Than Others, And That Regulator, Which Elsewhere Was Religion, Long Since Ceased To Exist For Them.