On Love:
Love has its own instinct, finding the way to the heart, as the feeblest insect finds the way to its flower, with a will which nothing can dismay nor turn aside.
Love is a game in which one always cheats.
Love is the poetry of the senses.
Love may be or it may not, but where it is, it ought to reveal itself in its immensity.
The fact is that love is of two kinds, one which commands, and one which obeys. The two are quite distinct, and the passion to which the one gives rise is not the passion of the other.
True love is eternal, infinite, and always like itself. It is equal and pure, without violent demonstrations: it is seen with white hairs and is always young in the heart.
First love is a kind of vaccination which saves a man from catching the complaint the second time.
On Happiness:
A mother’s happiness is like a beacon, lighting up the future but reflected also on the past in the guise of fond memories.
On God:
God is the poet, men are but the actors.