I am bored in France because everyone resembles Voltaire.

Within the bottle's depths, the wine's soul sang one night. Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.

Blessed art Thou, Lord, who giveth suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities.

There exist certain individuals who are, by nature, given purely to contemplation and are utterly unsuited to action, and who, nevertheless, under a mysterious and unknown impulse, sometimes act with a speed which they themselves would have thought beyond them.

We revel in the laxness of the path we take.

The solitary and thoughtful stroller finds a singular intoxication in this universal communion. The man who loves to lose himself in a crowd enjoys feverish delights that the egoist locked up in himself as in a box, and the slothful man like a mollusk in his shell, will be eternally deprived of. He adopts as his own all the occupations, all the joys and all the sorrows that chance offers.

Let us beware of common folk, of common sense, of sentiment, of inspiration, and of the obvious.