What Wretched Poverty Of Language! To Compare

A Superhuman Will Is Needed In Order To Write, And I Am Only A Man.

When You Reduce A Woman To Writing, She Makes You Think Of A Thousand Other Women

How We Keep These Dead Souls In Our Hearts. Each One Of Us Carries Within Himself His Necropolis.

Each Dream Finds At Last Its Form; There Is A Drink For Every Thirst, And Love For Every Heart. And There Is No Better Way To Spend Your Life Than In The Unceasing Preoccupation Of An Idea--of An Ideal.

Remembering The Ball Became For Emma A Daily Occupation. Every Time Wednesday Came Round, She Told Herself When She Woke Up: 'ah! One Week Ago...two Weeks Ago...three Weeks Ago, I Was There!' And, Little By Little, In Her Memory, The Faces All Blurred Together; She Forgot The Tunes Of The Quadrilles; No Longer Could She So Clearly Picture The Liveries And The Rooms; Some Details Disappeared, But The Yearning Remained.