I would rather dwell in the dim fog of superstition than in air rarefied to nothing by the air-pump of unbelief-in which the panting breast expires, vainly and convulsively gasping for breath.

For the Infinite has sowed his name in the heavens in burning stars, but on the earth He has sowed his name in tender flowers.

In women everything is heart, even the head.

A scholar knows no boredom.

It is simpler and easier to flatter people than to praise them.

Paradise is always where love dwells.

Every friend is to the other a sun, and a sunflower also. He attracts and follows.