Everything that is exquisite hides itself.

Present unhappiness is selfish; past sorrow is compassionate.

The folly which we might have ourselves committed is the one which we are least ready to pardon in another.

The man abandoned by his friends, one after another, without just cause, will acquire, the reputation of being hard to please, changeable, ungrateful, unsociable.

Great souls are harmonious.

Friends are rare for, the good reason that men are not common.

The historian must be a poet; not to find, but to find again; not to breathe life into beings, into imaginary deeds, but in order to re-animate and revive that which has been; to represent what time and space have placed at a distance from us.