Men have an obsession for wanting to know things that will upset them.
Cu cat o priveam mai mult pe aceasta femeie, cu atat ma fermeca mai tare. Era de o frumusete rapitoare. Chiar si trupul ei slab mi se parea o incantare.
Si intr-adevar, ce poate fi mai trist decat sa vezi imbatranirea in viciu, mai cu seama la o femeie? Ea nu mai are nici o demnitate si nu mai inspira nici un interes. Vesnica parere de rau, nu pentru calea rea urmata, ci pentru socotelile gresite si a banilor prost folositi, este unul dintre cele mai triste lucruri pe care le poti auzi.
In zilele noastrre, cand ai douazeci si cinci de ani, lacrimile sunt un lucru atat de pretios, incat nu i le poti darui primei venite.
Inalta si subtire pana la exagerare, ea detinea in cel mai inalt grad arta de a face sa dispara aceasta scapare a naturii, printr-o simpla aranjare a lucrurilor pe care le imbraca.
Cata dreptate aveau cei din vechime, care atribuiau unul si acelasi zeu negustorilor si hotilor!
Copilul e mic, dar in el e cuprins omul; creierul este stramt, dar el adaposteste gandirea; ochiul nu este decat un punct, dar el cuprinde in privirea sa orizontul.
We men are built like that, and it is very fortunate that the imagination lends so much poetry to the senses, and that the desires of the body make thus much concession to the dreams of the soul.
Margarita era bonita; pero, lo mismo que suena mucho la ida rebuscada de esas mujeres, suena su muerte poco. Son soles que se ponen como se levantan, sin ruido.
People ask for advice only in order not to follow it; or, if they follow it, in order to have someone to blame for giving it.
Women weep for the dead. Men avenge them.
All human wisdom is contained in these two words: ‘wait’ and ‘hope’“.
A man is always endowed by Heaven with too much for his own happiness, and just enough to make him miserable.
Give me full details, if you please, and above all begin at the beginning. I like order in all things.
He decided it was human hatred and not divine vengeance that had plunged him into this abyss. He doomed these unknown men to every torment that his inflamed imagination could devise, while still considering that the most frightful were too mild and, above all, too brief for them: torture was followed by death, and death brought, if not repose, at least an insensibility that resembled it.
I acted hastily towards him. Haste is a poor counsellor: I acted wrongly.
On the first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the market town of Meung, in which the author of Romance of the Rose was born, appeared to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just made a second La Rochelle of it.
All for one, one for all.
Then he raised his eyes towards the ceiling, but withdrew then, immediately, as if he feared the roof would open and reveal to his distressed view that second tribunal called heaven, and that other judge named God.
For behind all present happiness is concealed a fear for the future.