In putting off what one has to do, one runs the risk of never being able to do it.

It would be difficult for me not to conclude that the most perfect type of masculine beauty is Satan, as portrayed by Milton.

I am unable to understand how a man of honor could take a newspaper in his hands without a shudder of disgust.

For the merchant, even honesty is a financial speculation.

Everything for me becomes allegory

To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.

The immense profundity of thought in vulgar locutions, like holes dug by generations of ants.