It is unpleasant to miss even the most trifling thing to which we have been accustomed.

Our passions are the true phoenixes; when the old one is burnt out, a new one rises from its ashes.

One errs as long as one strives.

There is nothing outside of us that is not at the same time in us, and as the external world has its colors the eye, too, has colors.

Who is the wisest man? He who neither knows or wishes for anything else than what happens.

In praising or loving a child, we love and praise not that which is, but that which we hope for.

One must be something to be able to do something.