We are often prophets to others only because we are our own historians.

There are questions so indiscreet, that they deserve neither truth nor falsehood in reply.

There is nothing steadfast in life but our memories. We are sure of keeping intact only that which we have lost.

Men are always invoking justice; yet it is justice which should make them tremble.

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.

Only those faults which we encounter in ourselves are insufferable to us in others.

We are all of us, in this world, more or less like St. January, whom the inhabitants of Naples worship one day, and pelt with baked apples the next.