It is easier to ask of the poor than of the rich.

The wealthy are always surrounded by hangers-on; science and art are as well.

Critics are like horse-flies which hinder the horses in their plowing of the soil. The horse works, all its muscles drawn tight like the strings on a double-bass, and a fly settles on his flanks and tickles and buzzes. And what does the fly buzz about? It scarcely knows itself; simply because it is restless and wants to proclaim: 'Look, I too am living on the earth. See, I can buzz, too, buzz about anything.'

It's even pleasant to be sick when you know that there are people who await your recovery as they might await a holiday.

The happy man only feels at ease because the unhappy bear their burden in silence. Without this silence, happiness would be impossible.

The unhappy are egotistical, base, unjust, cruel, and even less capable of understanding one another than are idiots. Unhappinessdoes not unite people, but separates them.

I confess I seldom commune with my conscience when I write.