Whatever I may be, I want to be elsewhere than on paper. My art and my industry have been employed in making myself good for something; my studies, in teaching me to do, not to write. I have put all my efforts into forming my life. That is my trade and my work.

If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than it was because he was he, and I was I.

My library is my kingdom, and here I try to make my rule absolute-shutting off this single nook from wife, daughter and society. Elsewhere I have only a verbal authority, and vague. Unhappy is the man, in my opinion, who has no spot at home where he can be at home to himself-to court himself and hide away.

He who fears he will suffer, already suffers from his fear.

Who ever saw a doctor use the prescription of his colleague without cutting out or adding something?

It has never occurred to me to wish for empire or royalty, nor for the eminence of those high and commanding fortunes. My aim lies not in that direction; I love myself too well.

The easy, gentle, and sloping path . . . is not the path of true virtue. It demands a rough and thorny road.