A common fallacy: to imagine a measure will be easy because we have private motives for desiring it.

Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.

Every year strips us of at least one vain expectation, and teaches us to reckon some solid good in its stead.

In the first moments when we come away from the presence of death, every other relation to the living is merged, to our feeling, in the great relation of a common nature and a common destiny.

I like not only to be loved, but also to be told that I am loved. I am not sure that you are of the same mind. But the realm of silence is large enough beyond the grave. This is the world of light and speech, and I shall take leave to tell you that you are very dear.

Don't judge a book by its cover

The desire to conquer is itself a sort of subjection.