London is a riddle. Paris is an explanation.
We ought to be interested in that darkest and most real part of a man in which dwell not the vices that he does not display, but the virtues that he cannot.
We make our friends; we make our enemies; but God makes our next door neighbour.
How you think when you lose determines how long it will be until you win.
Man is at his tallest when he bows.
The hands that had made the sun and stars were too small to reach the huge heads of the cattle. Upon this paradox, we might almost say upon this jest, all the literature of our faith is founded.