There are men who never err, because they never propose anything rational.

Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter. Who would think that those branches would turn green again and blossom, but we hope it, we know it.

People are so constituted that everybody would rather undertake what they see others do, whether they have an aptitude for it or not.

We blame equally him who is too proud to put a proper value on his own merit and him who prizes too highly his spurious worth.

We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds; our planet is the mental institution of the universe.

How many kings are governed by their ministers, how many ministers by their secretaries? Who, in such cases, is really the chief?

Superstition is the poesy of practical life; hence, a poet is none the worse for being superstitious.