I am like a book, with pages that have stuck together for want of use: my mind needs unpacking and the truths stored within must be turned over from time to time, to be ready when occasion demands.

It is sometimes pleasant even to act like a madman.

Tis a human trait to hate one you have wronged

It is a youthful failing to be unable to control one's impulses.

What need is there to weep over parts of life? The whole of it calls for tears.

No one can have all he desires.

Our posterity will wonder about our ignorance of things so plain.