One's work may be finished someday, but one's education never.
In love, writing is dangerous, not to mention pointless.
Your bitter memories still have time to turn into sweet ones.
...does that not tell you that grief is like life and that there is always somethings unknown beyond it?
Fool that I am," said he,"that I did not tear out my heart the day I resolved to revenge myself".
I know what happiness and what despair are, and I never make a jest of such feelings. Take it, then, but in exchange —