I turn my gaze inward. I fix it there and keep it busy. I look inside myself. I continually observe myself.

It makes me hate accepting things that are probable when they are held up before me as infallibly true. I prefer these words which tone down and modify the hastiness of our propositions: "Perhaps, In some sort, Some, They say, I think," and the like.

Fie on the eloquence that leaves us craving itself, not things!

Pride dwells in the thought; the tongue can have but a very little share in it.

Marriage can be compared to a cage: birds outside it despair to enter, and birds within, to escape.

Great authors, when they write about causes, adduce not only those they think are true but also those they do not believe in, provided they have some originality and beauty. They speak truly and usefully enough if they speak ingeniously.

We only labor to stuff the memory, and leave the conscience and the understanding unfurnished and void.