 | A terrible danger lurks in theknowledge of what is possibleAccustomed to call its disguise virtueAdieu, my son, I love you and I dieAll philosophy is akin to atheismAll that is not life, it is the noiseof lifeAnd when love is sure of itself andknows responseBecause you weep, you fondly imagineyourself innocentBecome corrupt, and you will cease tosufferBegan to forget my own sorrow in mysympathy for herBeware of disgust, it is an incurableevilCan any one prevent a gossipCold silence, that negative forceContrive to use proud disdain as ashieldDeath is more to be desired than aliving distaste for lifeDespair of a man sick of life, or thewhim of a spoiled childDo they think they have invented whatthey seeEach one knows what the other is aboutto sayFool who destroys his own happinessForce itself, that mistress of theworldFuneral processions are no longerpermittedGalileo struck the earth, crying:"Nevertheless it moves!"Good and bad days succeeded each otheralmost regularlyGreat sorrows neither accuse norblaspheme--they listenGrief itself was for her but a means ofseducingHappiness of being pursuedHe who is loved by a beautiful woman issheltered from every blowHe lives only in the bodyHow much they desire to be loved whosay they love no moreHuman weakness seeks associationI can not be near you and separatedfrom you at the same momentI can not love her, I can not loveanotherI boasted of being worse than I reallywasI neither love nor esteem sadnessI do not intend either to boast orabase myselfIgnorance into which the Greek clergyplunged the laityIn what do you believe?Indignation can solace grief andrestore happinessIs he a dwarf or a giantIs it not enough to have lived?It is a pity that you must seekpastimesMake a shroud of your virtue in whichto bury your crimesMan who suffers wishes to make her whomhe loves sufferMen doubted everything: the young mendenied everythingNo longer esteemed her highly enough tobe jealous of herOf all the sisters of love, the mostbeautiful is pityPerfection does not existPure caprice that I myself mistook fora flash of reasonQuarrel had been, so to speak, less sadthan our reconciliationReading the Memoirs of ConstantResorted to exaggeration in order toappear originalSceptic regrets the faith he has lostthe power to regainSeven who are always the same: thefirst is called hopeShe pretended to hope for the bestSometimes we seem to enjoy unhappinessSpeak to me of your love, she said,"not of your griefSt. AugustineSuffered, and yet took pleasure in itSuspicions that are ever born anewTerrible words; I deserve them, butthey will kill meThere are two different men in youTicking of ...
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