Ah, what a grudge I owe physicians! what mummery is their art!
Were it not for the amusement of our books, we should be moped to death for want of occupation. It rains incessantly. ... we tickle ourselves in order to laugh; to so low an ebb are we reduced.
There is nobody who is not dangerous for someone.
Racine will pass away like the taste for coffee.
It is freezing fit to split a stone.
The desire to be singular and to astonish by ways out of the common seems to me to be the source of many virtues.