ETEXT editor’s bookmarks for the entire conscience: 

     As ignorant as a schoolmaster
     As free from prejudices as one may be, one always retains a few
     Confidence in one’s self is strength, but it is also weakness
     Conscience is a bad weighing-machine
     Conscience is only an affair of environment and of education
     Find it more easy to make myself feared than loved
     For the rest of his life he would be the prisoner of his crime
     Force, which is the last word of the philosophy of life
     He did not sleep, so much the better!  He would work more
     I believed in the virtue of work, and look at me! 
     In his eyes everything was decided by luck
     Intelligent persons have no remorse
     It is the first crime that costs
     It is only those who own something who worry about the price
     Leant—­and when I did not lose my friends I lost my money
     Leisure must be had for light reading, and even more for love
     Looking for a needle in a bundle of hay
     Neither so simple nor so easy as they at first appeared
     One does not judge those whom one loves
     People whose principle was never to pay a doctor
     Power to work, that was never disturbed or weakened by anything
     Reason before the deed, and not after
     Repeated and explained what he had already said and explained
     She could not bear contempt
     The strong walk alone because they need no one
     We are so unhappy that our souls are weak against joy
     We weep, we do not complain
     Will not admit that conscience is the proper guide of our action
     You love me, therefore you do not know me

MADAME CHRYSANTHEME

By Pierre Loti

With a Preface by Albert Sorel, of the French Academy

PIERRE LOTI

Louis-Marie-Julien Viaud, “Pierre Loti,” was born in Rochefort, of an old French-Protestant family, January 14, 1850.  He was connected with the.  French Navy from 1867 to 1900, and is now a retired officer with full captain’s rank.  Although of a most energetic character and a veteran of various campaigns—­Japan, Tonkin, Senegal, China (1900)—­M.  Viaud was so timid as a young midshipman that his comrades named him “Loti,” a small Indian flower which seems ever discreetly to hide itself.  This is, perhaps, a pleasantry, as elsewhere there is a much more romantic explanation of the word.  Suffice it to say that Pierre Loti has been always the nom de plume of M. Viaud.

Lod has no immediate literary ancestor and no pupil worthy of the name.  He indulges in a dainty pessimism and is most of all an impressionist, not of the vogue of Zola—­although he can be, on occasion, as brutally plain as he—­but more in the manner of Victor Hugo, his predecessor, or Alphonse Daudet, his lifelong friend.  In Loti’s works, however, pessimism is softened to a musical melancholy; the style is direct; the vocabulary exquisite; the moral situations familiar; the characters not complex.  In short, his place is unique, apart from the normal lines of novelistic development.