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

Few rash of any modern nation have a proper sense of an aesthetical whole; they praise and blame by parts; they are charmed by passages. And who has greater reason to rejoice in this than actors, since the stage is ever but a patched and piecemeal matter?

Where the light is brightest, the shadows are deepest.

We all walk in mysteries. We are surrounded by an atmosphere about which we still know nothing at all.

Hatred is active, and envy passive dislike; there is but one step from envy to hate.

There is nothing so terrible as activity without insight.

Just as, out of habit, one consults a run-down clock as though it were still going, so too one may look at the face of a beautiful woman as though he still loved her.