The sickness of the heart is most easily got rid of by complaining and soothing confidence.

In comradeship is danger countered best.

Hatred is a heavy burden. It sinks the heart deep in the breast, and lies like a tombstone on all joys.

To make something you have to be something.

Woe to falsehood! it affords no relief to the breast, like truth; it gives us no comfort, pains him who forges it, and like an arrow directed by a god flies back and wounds the archer.

Moral epochs have their course as well as the seasons. We can no more hold them fast than we can hold sun, moon, and stars. Our faults perpetually return upon us; and herein lies the subtlest difficulty of self-knowledge.

Some people spend the day in complaining of a headache, and the night in drinking the wine that gives it.