Hell, Madame, Is To Love No Longer.

Like All Truly Pure Souls She [chantal] Quickly Resigned Herself To Past Faults, Thought Only Of How To Repair Whatever Harm They Had Done. "of All My Daughters, You Are Certainly The Least Bothered By Scruples Of Conscience," Abbé Chevance Used To Say.... Even Sin, Once The Will Is Detached And No Longer Nourishes It, Withers And Dies Sterile. It Is In The Secret Of Intentions, Like In A Decomposing Humus, In The Dark Forest Of Future Sins, Unpardoned Sins, Half Dead, Half Living, That New Poisons Are Distilled.

A Man Given To Vice Is Always An Idealist.

What A Cunning Mixture Of Sentiment, Pity, Tenderness, Irony Surrounds Adolescence, What Knowing Watchfulness! Young Birds On Their First Flight Are Hardly So Hovered Around.

The World Is Eaten Up By Boredom. You Can't See It All At Once. It Is Like Dust. You Go About And Never Notice, You Breathe It In, You Eat And Drink It. It Is Sifted So Fine, It Doesn't Even Grit On Your Teeth. But Stand Still For An Instant And There It Is, Coating Your Face And Hands.

When You Think Of The Huge Uninterrupted Success Of A Book Like Don Quixote, You're Bound To Realize That If Humankind Have Not Yet Finished Being Revenged, By Sheer Laughter, For Being Let Down In Their Greatest Hope, It Is Because That Hope Was Cherished So Long And Lay So Deep!