Society seldom forgives those who have discovered the emptiness of its pleasures, and who can live independent of it and them.

There is no magician like love.

Modern historians are all would-be philosophers; who, instead of relating facts as they occurred, give us their version, or rather perversions of them, always colored by their political prejudices, or distorted to establish some theory . . .

Love in France is a comedy; in England a tragedy; in Italy an opera seria; and in Germany a melodrama.

Imagination, which is the Eldorado of the poet and of the novel-writer, often proves the most pernicious gift to the individuals who compose the talkers instead of the writers in society.

Heaven sends us misfortunes as a moral tonic.

Spring is the season of hope, and autumn is that of memory.