In youth we feel richer for every new illusion; in maturer years, for every one we lose.

Friendship is like those ancient altars where the unhappy, and even the guilty, found a sure asylum.

My sole defense against the natural horror which death inspires is to love beyond it.

It would seem that by our sorrows only are we called to a knowledge of the Infinite. Are we happy? The limits of life constrain us on all sides.

Real sorrow is almost as difficult to discover as real poverty. An instinctive delicacy hides the rays of the one and the wounds of the other.

Since there must be chimeras, why is not perfection the chimera of all men?

The law of common sense.