Love in France is a comedy; in England a tragedy; in Italy an opera seria; and in Germany a melodrama.
The future: A consolation for those who have no other.
Spring is the season of hope, and autumn is that of memory.
One of the most marked characteristics of our day is a reckless neglect of principles, and a rigid adherence to their semblance.
Wit lives in the present, but genius survives the future.
The most certain mode of making people content with us is to make them content with themselves.
[His mind] was like a volcano, full of fire and wealth, sometimes calm, often dazzling and playful, but ever threatening. It ran swift as the lightning from one subject to another, and occasionally burst forth in passionate throes of intellect, nearly allied to madness.
There is no magician like love.
Grief is, of all the passions, the one that is the most ingenious and indefatigable in finding food for its own subsistence.
Here Fashion is a despot, and no one dreams of evading its dictates.
... I never will allow myself to form an ideal of any person I desire to see, for disappointment never fails to ensue.
People are always willing to follow advice when it accords with their own wishes.
I see little alteration at Lyons since I formerly passed through it. Its manufactories are, nevertheless, flourishing, though less improvement than could be expected is visible in the external aspect of the place.
In France, a woman may forget that she is neither young nor handsome; for the absence of these claims to attention does not expose her to be neglected by the male sex.
Women excel more in literary judgment than in literary production,--they are better critics than authors.
Mountains appear more lofty the nearer they are approached, but great men resemble them not in this particular.
Tears fell from my eyes - yes, weak and foolish as it now appears to me, I wept for my departed youth; and for that beauty of which the faithful mirror too plainly assured me, no remnant existed.
Love matches are made by people who are content, for a month of honey, to condemn themselves to a life of vinegar.
Religion converts despair, which destroys, into resignation, which submits.
It is a sad thing to look at happiness only through another's eyes.
Talent, like beauty, to be pardoned, must be obscure and unostentatious.
Flowers are the bright remembrances of youth; they waft us back, with their bland odorous breath, the joyous hours that only young life knows, ere we have learnt that this fair earth hides graves.
A German writer observes: "The noblest characters only show themselves in their real light. All others act comedy with their fellow-men even unto the grave.
Those who are formed to win general admiration are seldom calculated to bestow individual happiness.
Haste is always ungraceful.
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