Our wishes are presentiments of the abilities that lie in us, harbingers of what we will be able to accomplish.

Great endowments often announce themselves in youth in the form of singularity and awkwardness.

All that is transitory is but a metaphor.

Men in a state of nature, uncivilized nations, children, have a great fondness for colors in their utmost brightness, and especially for yellow-red.

Is it not enough that we cannot make one another happy, must we also rob one another of the pleasures that any heart may permit itself now and then? And name me a person who in a bad mood will be decent enough to hide it, to bear it alone, without destroying the joy around him. Is it not rather an inner dissatisfaction with our own unworthiness, a dislike of ourselves that is always associated with envy aggravated by foolish conceit? We see people happy and not made happy by us, and that is unbearable.

Come my little one, and give me your hand.

Our passions are true phoenixes; as the old burn out the new straight rise up from the ashes.