Whoever is not a misanthrope at forty can never have loved mankind.

A fool who has a flash of wit creates astonishment and scandal, like hack-horses setting out to gallop.

Life is a malady in which sleep soothes us every sixteen hours; it is a palliation; death is the remedy.

Hope is but a charlatan that ceases not to deceive us. For myself happiness only began when I had lost it.

Were a man to consult only his reason, who would marry? For myself, I wouldn't marry, for fear of having a son who resembled me.

Spero Speroni explains admirably how an author who writes very clearly for himself is often obscure to his readers. "It is," he says, "because the author proceeds from the thought to the expression, and the reader from the expression to the thought.

If it wasn't for me, I'd do brilliantly.