For one thing, I know every book of mine by its scent.

To every man it is decreed: Thou shalt live alone. Happy they who imagine that they have escaped the common lot; happy, whilst they imagine it.

Money is made at Christmas out of holly and mistletoe, but who save the vendors would greatly care if no green branch were procurable?

It is because nations tend towards stupidity and baseness that mankind moves so slowly; it is because individuals have a capacity for better things that it moves at all.

Parks are but pavement disguised with a growth of grass.

That is one of the bitter curses of poverty; it leaves no right to be generous.

I have the happiness of a passing moment, and what more can mortal ask?