Each joy is like manna in the desert, which spoils from one day to the next. — André Gide

Today beauty no longer acts, and action no longer bothers about being beautiful.

What distinguished me from the rest was what mattered; what no one but I … could say—that was what I had to say.

What interest could I take in myself, except as a perfectible being? This unknown perfection, vaguely as I imagined it, exalted my will as never before in my longing to achieve it; I dedicated this will utterly to fortifying my body.