Beware of your habits. The better they are the more surely they will be your undoing.

A large, still book is a piece of quietness, succulent and nourishing in a noisy world, which I approach and imbibe with "a sort of greedy enjoyment," as Marcel Proust said of those rooms of his old home whose air was "saturated with the bouquet of silence."

Those who seek happiness miss it, and those who discuss it, lack it.

Be contented, when you have got all you want.

The time to read is any time: no apparatus, no appointment of time and place, is necessary.

People who want to be amused have lost the art of living.

Why did Nature create man? Was it to show that she is big enough to make mistakes, or was it pure ignorance?