Why do we discover faults so much more readily than perfection.

We must always live in hope; without that consolation there would be no living.

We like no noise unless we make it ourselves.

Death makes us all equal.

Ah, what a grudge I owe physicians! what mummery is their art!

Thicken your religion a little. It is evaporating altogether by being subtilized.

We like so much to talk of ourselves that we are never weary of those private interviews with a lover during the course of whole years, and for the same reason the devout like to spend much time with their confessor; it is the pleasure of talking of themselves, even though it be to talk ill.