It seems to me that the soul, when alone with itself and speaking to itself, uses only a small number of words, none of them extraordinary.

The folly of mistaking a paradox for a discovery, a metaphor for a proof, a torrent of verbiage for a spring of capital truths, and oneself for an oracle, is inborn in us.

From the moment that photography appeared, the descriptive genre began to invade Letters... In verse as in prose the décor and exterior aspects of life took an almost excessive place.

Power without abuse loses its charm.

The only treaties that ought to count are those which would effect a settlement between ulterior motives.

To see is to forget the name of the thing one sees.

Peace is a virtual, mute, sustained victory of potential powers against probable greeds