Why should we build our happiness on the opinons of others, when we can find it in our own hearts?

Whatever may be our natural talents, the art of writing is not acquired all at once.

Fame is but the breath of people, and that often unwholesome.

The infant, on opening his eyes, ought to see his country, and to the hour of his death never lose sight of it.

In the North the first words are, Help me; in the South, Love me.

Everything is in constant flux on this earth. Nothing keeps the same unchanging shape, and our affections, being attached to things outside us, necessarily change and pass away as they do. Always out ahead of us or lagging behind, they recall a past which is gone or anticipate a future which may never come into being; there is nothing solid there for the heart to attach itself to. Thus our earthly joys are almost without exception the creatures of a moment.

The English are predisposed to pride, the French to vanity.