“Are there not some places where we seem to breathe sadness? – why, we cannot tell. It is a chain of recollections – an idea which carries you back to other times, to other places – which, very likely, have no connection with the present time and place.”

Time, dear friend, time brings round opportunity; opportunity is the martingale of man. The more we have ventured the more we gain, when we know how to wait.

Great is truth. Fire cannot burn it nor water drown it.

Oh! The good times when we were so unhappy.

Moral wounds have this peculiarity – they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.

The wretched and miserable should turn to their Saviour first, yet they do not hope in Him until all other hope is exhausted.

I have always had more dread of a pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper than of a sword or pistol.

You are very amiable, no doubt, but you would be charming if you would only depart.

Be happy, noble heart, be blessed for all the good thou hast done and wilt do hereafter, and let my gratitude remain in obscurity like your good deeds.

Philosophy cannot be taught; it is the application of the sciences to truth.

Everyone knows that drunkards and lovers have a protecting diety.

Your bitter memories still have time to turn into sweet ones.

So heavy is the chain of wedlock that it needs two to carry it, and sometimes three.

The difference between treason and patriotism is only a matter of dates.

Pure love and suspicion cannot dwell together: at the door where the latter enters, the former makes its exit.

He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness.

When a man resolves to avenge himself, he should first of all tear out the heart from his breast.

I felt a tremendous sadness for men who can’t deal with a woman of their own age.

Perhaps the saddest irony of depression is that suicide happens when the patient gets a little better and can again function sufficiently.

I love sex. It should be animalistic, it should be sadistic, it should at times be masochistic. There are few rules and moral conventions.

Activity and sadness are incompatible.

Happiness is a little bit of art on a sad day.

I am so saddened and grossed out by young women who look like creepy, old aliens because of their new Barbie noses and lips. Is that a smile or a grimace?

I’m sad for adults who want to be children. And children who want to be adults.

Over all crowds there seems to float a vague distress, an atmosphere of pervasive melancholy, as if any large gathering of people creates an aura of terror and pity.