Though man is the only beast that can write, he has small reason to be proud of it. When he utters something that is wise it is nothing that the river horse does not know, and most of his creations are the result of accident.

We are ruled by chance but never have enough patience to accept its despotism.

Men are too unstable to be just; they are crabbed because they have not passed water at the usual time, or testy because they have not been stroked or praised.

Writing is conscience, scruple, and the farming of our ancestors.

One cat in a house is a sign of loneliness.

Who has enough credit in this world to pay for his mistakes?

We can only write well about our sins because it is too difficult to recall a virtuous act or even whether it was the result of good or evil motives.