Love is the occupation of the idle man, the amusement of a busy one, and the shipwreck of a sovereign.

Whatever shall we do in that remote spot? Well, we will write our memoirs. Work is the scythe of time.

The extent of your consciousness is limited only by your ability to love and to embrace with your love the space around you, and all it contains.

The tools belong to the man who can use them.

History paints the human heart.

There is no Nation however small which had the right to set itself free, that has not rescued itself from the dishonour of obeying the Prince imposed by an enemy in the hour of victory.

The fate of war is to be exalted in the morning, and low enough at night! There is but one step from triumph to ruin.