The grave is a crucible where memory is purified; we only remember a dead friend by those qualities which make him regretted.
We forget the origin of a parvenu if he remembers it; we remember it if he forgets it.
It is not what we have but what we enjoy that constitutes our abundance.
Let us respect gray Lairs, but, above all, our own.
That experience which does not make us better makes us worse.
That prudery which survives youth and beauty resembles a scarecrow left in the fields after harvest.