Hatred like love feeds on the merest trifles.

Excess of joy is harder to bear than any amount of sorrow.

The Parisan, sauntering the streets idly, is as often a man in despair as a lounger.

The wounds of self-love turn incurable when the oxide of self-love gets into them.

To speak of love is to make love.

Life cannot go on without much forgetting.

[Raphael's] great superiority is due to the instinctive sense which, in him, seems to desire to shatter form. Form is, in his figures, what it is in ourselves, an interpreter for the communication of ideas and sensations, an exhaustless source of poetic inspiration. Every figure is a world in itself, a portrait of which the original appeared in a sublime vision, in a flood of light, pointed to by an inward voice, laid bare by a divine finger which showed what the sources of expression had been in the whole past life of the subject.