So from now on the days were going to continue one after the other like this, always the same, innumerable, bringing nothing! . . . It was God's will. The future was a pitch-black tunnel, ending in a locked door. She gave up her music: why should she play? Who was there to listen? . . . She left her drawing books and her embroidery in a closet. What was the use of anything? What was the use?

Deep down, all the while, she was waiting for something to happen. Like a sailor in distress, she kept casting desperate glances over the solitary waster of he…

My God is the God of Socrates, of Franklin, of Voltaire, of Beranger! My credo is the credo of Rousseau! I adhere to the immortal principles of '89! I have no …

Though she had no one to write to, she had bought herself a blotter, a writing case, a pen and envelopes; she would dust off her whatnot, look at herself in th…

Farewell the hope that mocked, farewell despair That went before me still and made the pace. The earth is full of graves, and mine was there Before my life beg…

Deep down, all the while, she was waiting for something to happen. Like a sailor in distress, she kept casting desperate glances over the solitary waster of he…

The most glorious moments in your life are not the so-called days of success, but rather those days when out of dejection and despair you feel rise in you a ch…