What is experience? A poor little hut constructed from the ruins of the palace of gold and marble called our illusions

Our experience is composed rather of illusions lost than of wisdom acquired.

Solitude vivifies; isolation kills.

We call that person who has lost his father, an orphan; and a widower that man who has lost his wife. But that man who has known the immense unhappiness of losing a friend, by what name do we call him? Here every language is silent and holds its peace in impotence.

Poetry is the exquisite expression of exquisite expressions.

It is a very rare thing for a man of talent to succeed by his talent.