No passion is stronger in the breast of a man than the desire to make others believe as he believes. Nothing so cuts at the root of his happiness and fills him with rage as the sense that another rates low what he prizes high.

In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.

If we didn't live venturously, plucking the wild goat by the beard, and trembling over precipices, we should never be depressed, I've no doubt; but already should be faded, fatalistic and aged.

Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.

But I think I’m coloured by my own wishes, & experimental mood.

But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.

But nevertheless, the fact remained, it was almost impossible to dislike anyone if one looked at them.