It is well for our vanity that we slay the criminal, for if we suffered him to live he might show us what we had gained by his crime.

I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day—mock me horribly!

The heart was made to be broken

To become a spectator of one's own life is to escape the suffering of life.

Now it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there is in the world.

But then one regrets the loss even of one's worst habits. Perhaps one regrets them the most. They are such an essential part of one's personality.