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

There’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.

A drop of ink may make a million think.

This is the age of oddities let loose.

If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.

There is music in all things, if men had ears.

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.

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.