Why, since we are always complaining of our ills, are we constantly employed in redoubling them?

We cannot wish for that we know not.

I have been a hundred times on the point of killing myself, but still was fond of life. This ridiculous weakness is perhaps one of our worst instincts. What can be more absurd than choosing to carry a burden that one really wants to throw to the ground? To detest, and yet to strive to preserve our existence? To caress the serpent that devours us, and hug him close to our bosoms till he has gnawed into our hearts?

Friendship is the marriage of the soul, and this marriage is liable to divorce.

For seventeen hundred years the Christian sect has done nothing but harm.

History is only the pattern of silken slippers descending the stairs to the thunder of hobnailed boots climbing upward from below.

The prudent man does himself good; the virtuous one does it to other men.