Men fed upon carnage, and drinking strong drinks, have all an impoisoned and acrid blood which drives them mad in a hundred different ways.
It is not love that should be depicted as blind, but self-love.
We adore, we invoke, we seek to appease, only that which we fear.
The multitude of books is making us ignorant.
Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable.
Sensual pleasure passes and vanishes, but the friendship between us, the mutual confidence, the delight of the heart, the enchantment of the soul, these things do not perish and can never be destroyed.