We are scarcely apt to berate the source of enjoyment.
Love is perhaps no more than gratitude for pleasure.
The privilege of feeling at home everywhere belongs only to kings, wolves and robbers.
Equality may be a right, but no power on earth can convert it into fact.
Love is like some fresh spring, first a stream and then a river, changing its aspect and its nature as it flows to plunge itself in some boundless ocean, where restricted natures only find monotony, but where great souls are engulfed in endless contemplation.
He's got his dog trained so that it only does it on newspapers. The trouble is it does it when he's reading the blasted things.