Another life, if it were not better than this, would be less a promise than a threat.

None despise fame more heartily than those who have no possible claim to it.

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

Conscience whispers, but interest screams aloud.

The weak-minded man is the slave of his vices and the dupe of his virtues.

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

Envy, like flame, blackens that which is above it, and which it cannot reach.