The years I have squandered in puerile excitement, in going hither and thither, in seeking to force nature and time, I ought to have spent in solitude and meditation, in endeavoring to make myself worthy of being loved.

A cat will be your friend, but never your slave.

Books follow morals, and not morals books.

The cat is a dilettante in fur.

The public, which has been wrong before and is wrong now, can accept only demons and angels on the stage.

And then again, I am no longer quite such a good-looking young fellow that tapestries leap off the wall in my honour.

I belong to those for whom the superfluous is necessary.