I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy.
A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.
The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself and others, as he wishes.
I am bored in France because everyone resembles Voltaire.
How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.
Nations, like families, have great men only in spite of themselves.