Middle age snuffs out more talent than even wars or sudden death.

The only test of work of literature is that it shall please other ages than its own.

We confess our bad qualities to others out of fear of appearing naive or ridiculous by not being aware of them.

We soon cease to feel the grief at the deaths of our friends, yet we continue to the end of our lives to miss them. They are still with us in their absence.

We are closer to the ants than to the butterflies. Very few people can endure much leisure.

A bad memory is the mother of invention.

Old age takes away from us what we have inherited and gives us what we have earned.