I think, therefore I doubt.

Idleness is a mother. She has a son, robbery, and a daughter, hunger.

At a certain depth of distress, the poor, in their stupor, groan no longer over evil, and are no longer thankful for good.

Wherever the Turkish hoof trods, no grass grows.

The brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are over we realize this: that the human race has been roughly handled, but that it has advanced.

Success is a very hideous thing. Its false resemblance to merit deceives men.

Seeing so much poverty everywhere makes me think that God is not rich. He gives the appearance of it, but I suspect some financial difficulties.