Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.

My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.

So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.

I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.

[Armenian] is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.

The best prophet of the future is the past.

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.