“Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.”

How easy love makes fools of us.

There is something inexpressibly charming in falling in love and, surely, the whole pleasure lies in the fact that love isn’t lasting.

And with his arms crossed he looks pityingly down from his spiritual height on everything that anyone says.

It is not only for what we do that we are held responsible, but also for what we do not do.

Our minds need relaxation, and give way unless we mix with work a little play.

Stay awhile that we may make an end the sooner.

To find yourself jilted is a blow to your pride. Do your best to forget it and if you don’t succeed, at least pretend to.

You have but to hold forth in cap and gown, and any gibberish becomes learning, all nonsense passes for sense.

Show some mercy to this chair which has stretched out its arms to you for so long; please satisfy its desire to embrace you!

Some of the most famous books are the least worth reading. Their fame was due to their having done something that needed to be doing in their day. The work is done and the virtue of the book has expired.

Unreasonable haste is the direct road to error.

It infuriates me to be wrong when I know I’m right.

Every good act is charity. A man’s true wealth hereafter is the good that he does in this world to his fellows.

Those whose conduct gives room for talk are always the first to attack their neighbors.

No matter what everybody says, ultimately these things can harm us only by the way we react to them.

Man, I can assure you, is a nasty creature.