Man is so made that he can only find relaxation from one kind of labor by taking up another.

It is not customary to love what one has.

Chance is perhaps the pseudonym of God when he did not want to sign.

Nature, in her indifference, makes no distinction between good and evil.

There is a certain impertinence in allowing oneself to be burned for an opinion.

I ought not to fear to survive my own people so long as there are men in the world; for there are always some whom one can love.

I cling to my imperfection, as the very essence of my being.