We need two kinds of acquaintances, one to complain to, while to the others we boast.

The mere process of growing old together will make our slightest acquaintances seem like bosom friends.

People before the public live an imagined life in the thought of others, and flourish or feel faint as their self outside themselves grows bright or dwindles in that mirror.

What I like in a good author isn't what he says, but what he whispers.

It takes a great man to give sound advice tactfully, but a greater to accept it graciously.

Happiness is a wine of the rarest vintage, and seems insipid to a vulgar taste.