“The voice of conscience is so delicate that it is easy to stifle it; but it is also so clear that it is impossible to mistake it.”

One must choose in life between boredom and suffering.

Search for the truth is the noblest occupation of man; its publication is a duty.

Genius is essentially creative; it bears the stamp of the individual who possesses it.

The more I see of men the more I like dogs.

The mystery of existence is the connection between our faults and our misfortunes.

Speech happens to not be his language.

Sow good services: sweet remembrances will grow from them.

To be totally understanding makes one very indulgent.

That past which is so presumptuously brought forward as a precedent for the present, was itself founded on some past that went before it.

Men err from selfishness; women because they are weak.

Love is a symbol of eternity. It wipes out all sense of time, destroying all memory of a beginning and all fear of an end.

Scientific progress makes moral progress a necessity; for if man’s power is increased.

The human mind always makes progress, but it is a progress in spirals.

A man must know how to fly in the face of opinion; a woman to submit to it.

A religious life is a struggle and not a hymn.

Love is the whole history of a woman’s life, it is but an episode in a man’s.

Rain is the warm softness of a mother’s hand as she soothingly dabs that nasty smelling ointment on that bruised kneecap of yours, her delicate features creased with worry.

You flowed into me so delicately, like a beautiful twist of fate. I inspired you as you moved me in an alluring turn of phrase.

The infinite ceiling of my dainty delicate dreams makes me see the wise world where my heart belongs.

The dark silhouette of a forgotten rose in a forbidden garden of love; what kind of delicate fragrance of forgiveness it seems to tell my heart about.

The flavor of wine is like delicate poetry.

Her love was like lavender, Delicate and melancholy.

I’m still trying to fix up the wreckage you left behind, the chaotic strings of misery you let fall to the floor. Each piece delicately piercing my skin, the red glow a contrast to my continual white limbs.

She’s a delicate masterpiece. Touching her involves the risk of breaking her pieces.