Memory is a paradise out of which fate cannot drive us.
Si intr-adevar, ce poate fi mai trist decat sa vezi imbatranirea in viciu, mai cu seama la o femeie? Ea nu mai are nici o demnitate si nu mai inspira nici un interes. Vesnica parere de rau, nu pentru calea rea urmata, ci pentru socotelile gresite si a banilor prost folositi, este unul dintre cele mai triste lucruri pe care le poti auzi.
In zilele noastrre, cand ai douazeci si cinci de ani, lacrimile sunt un lucru atat de pretios, incat nu i le poti darui primei venite.
Inalta si subtire pana la exagerare, ea detinea in cel mai inalt grad arta de a face sa dispara aceasta scapare a naturii, printr-o simpla aranjare a lucrurilor pe care le imbraca.
Cata dreptate aveau cei din vechime, care atribuiau unul si acelasi zeu negustorilor si hotilor!
Copilul e mic, dar in el e cuprins omul; creierul este stramt, dar el adaposteste gandirea; ochiul nu este decat un punct, dar el cuprinde in privirea sa orizontul.
We men are built like that, and it is very fortunate that the imagination lends so much poetry to the senses, and that the desires of the body make thus much concession to the dreams of the soul.
Margarita era bonita; pero, lo mismo que suena mucho la ida rebuscada de esas mujeres, suena su muerte poco. Son soles que se ponen como se levantan, sin ruido.
One day, as I was going to the Prefecture for a passport, I saw in one of the neighbouring streets a poor girl who was being marched along by two policemen. I do not know what was the matter. All I know is that she was weeping bitterly as she kissed an infant only a few months old, from whom her arrest was to separate her. Since that day I have never dared to despise a woman at first sight.
Since “there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance,” let us give joy to heaven. Heaven will render it back to us with usury.
I shall never be myself again until I have seen Marguerite. It is perhaps the thirst of the fever, a sleepless night’s dream, a moment’s delirium; but though I were to become a Trappist, like M. de Rance’, after having seen her, I will see her.
How many ways does the heart take, how many reasons does it invent for itself, in order to arrive at what it wants!
One finds pleasure in childish enough things, and it is too bad to destroy such a pleasure when, by simply leaving it alone, one can make somebody so happy.
I dreamed incredible dreams of the future; I said to myself that she should owe to me her moral and physical recovery, that I should spend my whole life with her, and that her love should make me happier than all the maidenly loves in the world.
If men knew what they can have for a tear, they would be better loved and we should be less ruinous to them.
Then I met you, young, ardent, happy, and I tried to make you the man I had longed for in my noisy solitude. What I loved in you was not the man who was, but the man who was going to be. You do not accept the position, you reject it as unworthy of you; you are an ordinary lover. Do like the others; pay me, and say no more about it.
You know what it is to be in love with a woman, you know how it cuts short the days, and with what loving listlessness one drifts into the morrow. You know that forgetfulness of everything which comes of a violent confident, reciprocated love. Every being who is not the beloved one seems a useless being in creation. One regrets having cast scraps of one’s heart to other women, and one can not believe in the possibility of ever pressing another hand than that which one holds between one’s hands.
Their two lives are now as one; no sooner is their affection sealed than they feel as though it has always existed, and everything that has gone before is blotted from the memory of the.
In my opinion, it is impossible to create characters until one has spent a long time in studying men, as it is impossible to speak a language until it has been seriously acquired. Not being old enough to invent, I content myself with narrating, and I beg the reader to assure himself of the truth of a story in which all the characters, with the exception of the heroine, are still alive.
A month of love like that, and there would have remained only the corpse of heart or body.
Cercai un mezzo per riavvicinarmi a lei, un mezzo che il mio amor proprio avesse potuto attribuire a caso, se fossi riuscito nel mio intento.