It is possible to have a strong self-love without any self-satisfaction, rather with a self-discontent which is the more intense because one's own little core of egoistic sensibility is a supreme care.

Our thoughts are often worse than we are.

I think any hardship is better than pretending to do what one is paid for, and never really doing it.

I have nothing to tell except travellers' stories, which are always tiresome, like the description of a play which was very exciting to those who saw it.

I think I am quite wicked with roses. I like to gather them, and smell them till they have no scent left.

Your dunce who can't do his sums always has a taste for the infinite.

... it is because sympathy is but a living again through our own past in a new form, that confession often prompts a response of confession.