Every time a man is begotten and born, the clock of human life is wound up anew to repeat once more its same old tune that has already been played innumerable times, movement by movement and measure by measure, with insignificant variations.

Wicked thoughts and worthless efforts gradually set their mark on the face, especially the eyes.

A man who has not enough originality to think out a new title for his book will be much less capable of giving it new contents.

This is the case with many learned persons; they have read themselves stupid.

The little honesty that exists among authors is discernible in the unconscionable way they misquote from the writings of others.

If people insist that honor is dearer than life itself, what they really mean is that existence and well-being are as nothing compared with other people's opinions. Of course, this may be only an exaggerated way of stating the prosaic truth that reputation, that is, the opinion others have of us, is indispensable if we are to make any progress in the world.

A man can surely do what he wills to do, but cannot determine what he wills.