The history of a man's soul, even the pettiest soul, is hardly less interesting and useful than the history of a whole people; especially when the former is the result of the observations of a mature mind upon itself, and has been written without any egotistical desire of arousing sympathy or astonishment. Rousseau's Confessions has precisely this defect – he read it to his friends.

He in his madness prays for storms, and dreams that storms will bring him peace.

A strange thing, the human heart in general, and woman's heart in particular.

We practically always excuse things when we understand them

Of two friends, one is always the slave of the other, although frequently neither acknowledges the fact to himself.

It is sad to see a young man's fondest hopes and dreams shattered when the rose-colured veil is plucked away and he sees the actions and feelings of men for what they are. But he still has the hope of replacing his old illusions with others, just as fleeting, but also just as sweet.

An unusual beginning must have an unusual end.