There are minds constructed like the eyes of certain insects, which discern, with admirable distinctness, the most delicate lineaments and finest veins of the leaf which bears them, but are totally unable to take in the ensemble of the plant or shrub. When error has effected an entrance into such minds, it remains there impregnable, because no general view assists them in throwing off the chance impression of the moment.

We expect everything and are prepared for nothing.

By becoming unhappy, we sometimes learn how to be less so.

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

As we advance in life the circle of our pains enlarges, while that of our pleasures contracts.

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

Silence is like nightfall. Objects are lost in it insensibly.