Eloquence is a painting of thought; and thus those who, after having painted it, add something more, make a picture instead of a portrait.

Men are so necessarily mad, that not to be mad would amount to another form of madness.

You're basically killing each other to see who's got the better imaginary friend.

Mediocrity makes the most of its native possessions.

When we see a natural style, we are astonished and charmed; for we expected to see an author, and we find a person.

Time heals griefs and quarrels, for we change and are no longer the same persons. Neither the offender nor the offended are any more themselves.

If a man is not made for God, why is he happy only in God?