In love we are not only liable to betray ourselves, but also the secrets of others.

Our interests are grains of opium to our consciences, but they only put it to sleep for a terrible awakening.

Nothing for preserving the body like having no heart.

The most exacting jailer is our own conscience.

We find ourselves less witty in remembering what we have said than in dreaming of what we would have said.

Genius, like a torch, shines less in the broad daylight of the present than in the night of the past.

In all that surrounds him the egotist sees only the frame of his own portrait.