Oblivion Is The Flower That Grows Best

One Wastes So Much Time, One Is So Prodigal Of Life, At Twenty! Our Days Of Winter Count For Double. That Is The Compensation Of The Old.

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.

Years Do Not Always Make Age.

Weeds Are Omnipresent; Errors Are To Be Found In The Heart Of The Most Lovable.

Humanity Is Outraged In Me And With Me. We Must Not Dissimulate Nor Try To Forget This Indignation, Which Is One Of The Most Passionate Forms Of Love.