Man is born in a day and he dies in a day and the thing is easily over, but to have a sick heart for three-fourths of one's lifetime is simply to have death renewed every morning, and life at that price is not worth living.
Imagination is at the root of much that passes for love.
Love knows not distance, it hath no continent, its eyes are for the stars.
It is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride, monseigneur.
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For the born traveller, travelling is a besetting vice. Like other vices, it is imperious, demanding its victim’s time, money, energy and the sacrifice of comfort.