In our early youth we sit before the life that lies ahead of us like children sitting before the curtain in a theatre, in happy and tense anticipation of whatever is going to appear. Luckily we do not know what really will appear.

Reading is merely a surrogate for thinking for yourself; it means letting someone else direct your thoughts.

Whoever wants his judgment to be believed, should express it coolly and dispassionately; for all vehemence springs from the will. And so the judgment might be attributed to the will and not to knowledge, which by its nature is cold.

The scenes and events of long ago, and the persons who took part in them, wear a charming aspect to the eye of memory, which sees only the outlines and takes no note of disagreeable details. The present enjoys no such advantage, and so it always seems defective.

Human life, like all inferior goods, is covered on the outside with a false glitter; what suffers always conceals itself.

A happy life is impos­si­ble; the best that a man can attain is a heroic life.

To be alone is the fate of all great minds—a fate deplored at times, but still always chosen as the less grievous of two evils.