He who disguises tyranny, protection, or even benefits under the air and name of friendship reminds me of the guilty priest who poisoned the sacramental bread.
She commands who is blest with indifference.
Pleasure may come from illusion, but happiness can come only of reality.
Where violence reigns, reason is weak.
Life is a malady in which sleep soothes us every sixteen hours; it is a palliation; death is the remedy.
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.