The weak-minded man is the slave of his vices and the dupe of his virtues.
There are wounds of self-love which one does not confess to one's dearest friends.
The grave is a crucible where memory is purified; we only remember a dead friend by those qualities which make him regretted.
In a better world we will find our young years and our old friends.
The great chastisement of a knave is not to be known, but to know himself.
Pleasure and satiety live next door to each other.