Much that for us is fraught with with happiness or misery, remains almost unnoticed by the rest of the world.
One can seldom admire what one loves.
He turned his head to avoid seeing the happy tableau of pleasures that he had passionately loved and that he would never enjoy again.
Death is in truth an illness from which we recover.
The ray of light beneath his door is extinguished. It is midnight; some one has turned out the gas; the last servant has gone to bed, and he must lie all night in agony with no one to bring him any help.
We do not receive wisdom, we must discover it for ourselves, after a journey through the wilderness which no one else can make for us, which no one can spare us, for our wisdom is the point of view from which we come at last to regard the world.