In life there are two things which are dependable. The pleasures of the flesh and the pleasures of literature.

A good lover will behave just as elegantly at dawn as at any other time.

Pleasing things: finding a large number of tales that one has not read before. Or acquiring the second volume of a tale whose first volume one has enjoyed. But often it is a disappointment.

To wash one's hair, make one's toilet, and put on scented robes even if not a soul sees one, these preparations still produce an inner pleasure.

If letters did not exist, what dark depressions would come over one! When one has been worrying about something and wants to tell a certain person about it, what a relief it is to put it all down in a letter! Still greater is one's joy when a reply arrives. At that moment a letter really seems like an elixir of life.

One is telling a story about old times when someone breaks in with a little detail that he happens to know, implying that one's own version is inaccurate — disgusting behavior!