Melancholy is the pleasure of being sad.
We do not comprehend everything, but we insult nothing.
In the opera we call love, the libretto is almost nothing.
The animal is ignorant of the fact that he knows. The man is aware of the fact that he is ignorant.
The most beautiful of altars, he said, is the soul of an unhappy creature consoled and thankfing God.
We would be ashamed of our best behavior if the people knew the motives of our behaving so.