Almost All Novels Are Love Stories.

The World Will Know And Understand Me Someday. But If That Day Does Not Arrive, It Does Not Greatly Matter. I Shall Have Opened The Way For Other Women.

Butterflies Are But Flowers That Blew Away One Sunny Day When Nature Was Feeling At Her Most Inventive And Fertile.

One Approaches The Journey's End. But The End Is A Goal, Not A Catastrophe.

One Is Happy As A Result Of One's Own Efforts, Once One Knows Of The Necessary Ingredients Of Happiness-simple Tastes, A Certain Degree Of Courage, Self-denial To A Point, Love Of Work, And, Above All, A Clear Conscience. Happiness Is No Vague Dream, Of That I Now Feel Certain.

Art Belongs To All Times And To All Countries; Its Special Benefit Is Precisely To Be Still Living When Everything Else Seems Dying; That Is Why Providence Shields It From Too Personal Or Too General Passions, And Grants It A Patient And Persevering Organization, Durable Sensibility, And The Contemplative Sense In Which Lies Invincible Faith.