History is the transformation of tumultuous conquerors into silent footnotes.

Jealousy would be far less torturous if we understood that love is a passion entirely unrelated to our merits.

We mourn the transitory things and fret under the yoke of the immutable ones.

We hew and saw and plane facts to make them dovetail with our prejudices, so that they become mere ornaments with which to parade our objectivity.

Praises for our past triumphs are as feathers to a dead bird.

To judge a man's character by only one of its manifestations is like judging the sea by a jugful of its water.

Many a necklace becomes a noose.