“Flattery labors under the odious charge of servility.”

All things atrocious and shameless flock from all parts to Rome.

The lust of fame is the last that a wise man shakes off.

Reckless adventure is the fool’s hazard.

Crime, once exposed, has no refuge but in audacity.

The desire for glory clings even to the best men longer than any other passion.

Posterity will pay everyone their due.

Benefits received are a delight to us as long as we think we can requite them; when that possibility is far exceeded, they are repaid with hatred instead of gratitude.

The most detestable race of enemies are flatterers.

Once killing starts, it is difficult to draw the line.

I am my nearest neighbour.

The worst hatred is that of relatives.

Solitudinem faciunt pacem appellant. They make a wilderness and they call it peace.

To rob, to ravage, to murder, in their imposing language, are the arts of civil policy. When they have made the world a solitude, they call it peace.

The brave and bold persist even against fortune; the timid and cowardly rush to despair though fear alone.

They make a desert and call it peace.

It is of eloquence as of a flame; it requires matter to feed it, and motion to excite it; and it brightens as it burns.

All the clouds in me are raining.

I could weep for a river-valley, and I have. But for a country? Oh man, I don’t know.

Authentic men aren’t afraid to show affection, release their feelings, hug their children, cry when they’re sad, admit it when they’re wrong, and ask for help when they need it.

Darkness attracts me, it’s the only time, I can cry in peace.

As I pen these words, tears flow from my pained heart onto my trembling lips, and the soul seeks release from daily abuse.

We suffered. We worried. We lost. We wept. But loved, and laughed, and cared, and helped.

And still as an adult like I do as well, you know what I mean like I literally just cried in the first interview that I had today. Like, I’m just a very emotional human.

Illness and problems are the specialties of life. But the death of a child is a cause of mental agony which can be overcome if one concedes this world to be a stage or stadium wherein praiseworthy are those who are not proud of their achievement and those who do not cry at their defeat.