Travelling Is Like A Novel: It's What

We Must Love Stupid People Better Than Ourselves; Are They Not The Really Unfortunate Ones Of This World? Do Not People Without Taste And Without Ideal Grow Constantly Weary, Rejoicing In Nothing, And Being Quite Useless Here Below?

I Regard As A Mortal Sin Not Only The Lying Of The Senses In Matters Of Love, But Also The Illusion Which The Senses Seek To Create Where Love Is Only Partial. I Say, I Believe, That One Must Love With All Of One's Being, Or Else Live, Come What May, A Life Of Complete Chastity.

Nothing Resembles Selfishness More Closely Than Self-respect

I Love Everything That Makes Up A Milieu, The Rolling Of The Carriages And The Noise Of The Workmen In Paris, The Cries Of A Thousand Birds In The Country, The Movement Of The Ships On The Waters. I Love Also Absolute, Profound Silence, And, In Short, I Love Everything That Is Around Me, No Matter Where I Am.

Time Is Always Wanting To Me, And I Cannot Meet With A Single Day When I Am Nut Hurried Along, Driven To By Wits'-end By Urgent Work, Business To Attent Do Or Some Service To Render.