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How many crimes committed merely because their authors could not endure being wrong! I once knew a manufacturer who had a perfect wife, admired by all, and yet he deceived her. That man was literally furious to be in the wrong, to be blocked from receiving, or granting himself, a certificate of virtue.
That’s the way man is, cher monsieur. He has two faces: he can’t love without self-love.
Truth, like light, blinds. Falsehood, on the contrary, is a beautiful twilight that enhances every object.
On his bewildered face, half hidden by his hand, I read the melancholy of the common condition and the despair of not being able to escape it.
