Man spends his life in reasoning on the past, in complaining of the present, in fearing future.

That which happens to the soil when it ceases to be cultivated by the social man happens to man himself when he foolishly forsakes society for solitude; the brambles grow up in his desert heart.

It is not he who searches for praise who finds it.

Reason is the historian, but passions are the actors.

There are men who gain from their wealth only the fear of losing it.

History is only time furnished with dates and rich with events.

What isn’t clear, isn’t French.