It is death that is the guide of our life, and our life has no goal but death.

Every year, in November, at the season that follows the hour of the dead, the crowning and majestic hours of autumn, I go to visit the chrysanthemums ... They are indeed, the most universal, the most diverse of flowers.

Our reason may prove what it will: our reason is only a feeble ray that has issued from Nature.

The true sage is not he who sees, but he who, seeing the furthest, has the deepest love for mankind.

When we lose one we love, our bitterest tears are called forth by the memory of hours when we loved not enough.

All our knowledge merely helps us to die a more painful death than animals that know nothing.

The souls of all our brethren are ever hovering about us, craving for a caress, and only waiting for the signal.