One is always ready to despise a goal which one has not succeeded in attaining, or has finally attained.
People whose own hearts are not directly involved always regard unfortunate entanglements, disastrous marriages, as though one were free to choose whom one loves, and do not take into account the exquisite mirage which love projects and which envelops so entirely and so uniquely the person with whom one is in love that the “folly” a man commits by marrying his cook or the mistress of a best friend is as a rule the only poetical action that he performs in the course of his existence.
So what I had believed to be nothing to me was simply my entire life. How ignorant one is of oneself.
Our intelligence is not the subtlest, most powerful, most appropriate instrument for gasping the truth.