There are people whom I wish well, and would that I could wish better.
By force of habit we look at a clock that has run down as if it were still going, and we gaze at the face of a beauty as though she still loved.
Hatred is active displeasure, envy passive. We need not wonder that envy turns so soon to hatred.
There is something magical in rhythm; it even makes us believe that we possess the sublime.
Dilettantism treated seriously, and knowledge pursued mechanically, end by becoming pedantry.