I Don't Want People To Love Me.

Love Is, Above All, The Gift Of Oneself.

Listen, My Friend, There Are Two Races Of Beings. The Masses Teeming And Happy - Common Clay, If You Like - Eating, Breeding, Working, Counting Their Pennies; People Who Just Live; Ordinary People; People You Can't Imagine Dead. And Then There Are The Others - The Noble Ones, The Heroes. The Ones You Can Quite Well Imagine Lying Shot, Pale And Tragic; One Minute Triumphant With A Guard Of Honor, And The Next Being Marched Away Between Two Gendarmes

Saintliness Is Also A Temptation.

Beauty, Real Beauty, Is Something Very Grave. If There Is A God, He Must Be Partly That.

An Ugly Sight, A Man Who Is Afraid.