“Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.”

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

A celebrity is one who is known to many persons he is glad he doesn’t know.

And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.

In solitude, when we are least alone.

Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.

All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.

Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?

A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions… think.

What a strange thing is man! And what a stranger is woman.

The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

Armenian is the language to speak with God.

The dew of compassion is a tear.

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

Think not I am what I appear.

In solitude, where we are least alone.

Good work and joyous play go hand in hand. When play stops, old age begins. Play keeps you from taking life too seriously.