When we have passed a certain age, the soul of the child that we were and the souls of the dead from whom we sprang come and shower upon us their riches.
Beneath any carnal attraction at all deep, there is the permanent possibility of danger.
We are sculptors. We want to obtain of a woman a statue entirely different from the one she has presented to us.
Memory, instead of being a duplicate, always present before one’s eyes, of the various events in one’s life, is rather a void from which at odd moments a chance resemblance enables one to resuscitate dead recollections; but even then there are innumerable little details which have not fallen into that potential reservoir of memory, and which will remain for ever unverifiable.