What humbugs we are, who pretend to live for beauty, and never see the dawn!

Happiness is a wine of the rarest vintage, and seems insipid to a vulgar taste.

So, I never lose a sense of the whimsical and perilous charm of daily life, with its meetings and words and accidents.

To become young again would seem to me an appalling prospect. Youth is a kind of delirium, which can be cured, if it is ever cured at all, by years of painful treatment.

The world is not unkind, and reprobates are worse than their reputations.

What joy can the years bring half so sweet as the unhappiness they've taken away?

Youth is the time for adventures of the body, but age for the triumphs of the mind.