Hope is a risk that must be run.
Little things seem nothing, but they give peace, like those meadow flowers which individually seem odorless but all together perfume the air.
Hell, madam, is to love no longer.
What does the truth matter? Haven't we mothers all given our sons a taste for lies, lies which from the cradle upwards lull them, reassure them, send them to sleep: lies as soft and warm as a breast!
Who are you to condemn another's sin? He who condemns sin becomes part of it, espouses it.
It is the perpetual dread of fear, the fear of fear, that shapes the face of a brave man.
