The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition
Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.
I am not, and never was, and never could have been, a brutal scoundrel.
Don't cry, I'm sorry to have deceived you so much, but that's how life is.
The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express is, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.
Solitude is the playfield of Satan.