The world is the work of a single thought, expressed in a thousand different ways.

If it were not for respect for human opinions, I would not open my window to see the Bay of Naples for the first time, whilst I would go five hundred leagues to talk with a man of genius whom I had not seen.

Self-love, so sensitive in its own cause, has rarely any sympathy to spare for others.

Unhappy love freezes all our affections: our own souls grow inexplicable to us. More than we gained while we were happy we lose by the reverse.

Happiness is a wondrous commodity: the more you give, the more you have.

Taste is to literature what bon ton is in society.

Goethe has made a remark upon the perfectability of the human mind, which is full of sagacity: It is always advancing, but in a spiral line.