“The color of truth is gray.”
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To read a writer is for me not merely to get an idea of what he says, but to go off with him and travel in his company.
It is unthinkable for a Frenchman to arrive at middle age without having syphilis and the Cross of the Legion of Honor.
Old hands soil, it seems, whatever they caress, but they too have their beauty when they are joined in prayer. Young hands were made for caresses and the sheathing of love. It is a pity to make them join too soon.
Everything has been said before, but since nobody listens we have to keep going back and beginning all over again.