The habit of thinking prevents us at times from experiencing reality, immunises us against it, makes it seem no more than any other thought.

The time which we have at our disposal every day is elastic; the passions that we feel expand it, those that we inspire contract it; and habit fills up what remains.

We strive all the time to give our life its form, but we do so by copying willy-nilly, like a drawing, the features of the person that we are and not of the person we should like to be.

Most of our faculties lie dormant because they can rely upon Habit, which knows what there is to be done and has no need of their services.

The anaesthetic effect of habit being destroyed, I would begin to think - and to feel - such melancholy things.