Reflection brakes men cowards. There is no object that can be put in competition with life, unless it is viewed through the medium of passion, and we are hurried away by the impulse of the moment.
Painting gives the object itself; poetry what it implies. Painting embodies what a thing contains in itself; poetry suggests what exists out of it, in any manner connected with it.
We grow tired of ourselves, much more of other people.
A great man la an abstraction of some one excellence; but whoever fancies himself an abstraction of excellence, so far from being great, may be sure that he is a blockhead, equally ignorant of excellence or defect of himself or others.
Every man, in judging of himself, is his own contemporary. He may feel the gale of popularity, but he cannot tell how long it will last. His opinion of himself wants distance, wants time, wants numbers, to set it off and confirm it.
I have known persons without a friend – never any one without some virtue. The virtues of the former conspired with their vices to make the whole world their enemies.
There is evil poured upon the earth from the overflowings of corruption – Sickness, and poverty, and pain, and guilt, and madness, and sorrow; But, as the water from a fountain riseth and sinketh to its level, Ceaselessly toileth justice to equalize the lots of men.
We are very much what others think of us. The reception our observations meet with gives us courage to proceed, or damps our efforts.
Weakness has its hidden resources, as well as strength. There is a degree of folly and meanness which we cannot calculate upon, and by which we are as much liable to be foiled as by the greatest ability or courage.
The temple of fame stands upon the grave: the flame that burns upon its altars is kindled from the ashes of great men.
Our notions with respect to the importance of life, and our attachment to it, depend on a principle which has very little to do with its happiness or its misery. The love of life is, in general, the effect not of our enjoyments, but of our passions.
It is well there is no one without fault; for he would not have a friend in the world. He would seem to belong to s different species.
Within my heart is lurking suspicion, and base fear, and shame and hate; but above all, tyrannous love sits throned, crowned with her graces, silent and in tears.
We must overact our part in some measure, in order to produce any effect at all.
The Princess Borghese, Bonaparte’s sister, who was no saint, sat to Canova as a reclining Venus, and being asked if she did not feel a little uncomfortable, replied, “No. There was a fire in the room.”
Genius, like humanity, rusts for want of use.
There is nothing more likely to drive a man mad, than the being unable to get rid of the idea of the distinction between right and wrong, and an obstinate, constitutional preference of the true to the agreeable.
No man can thoroughly master more than one art or science.
People are not soured by misfortune, but by the reception they meet with in it.
We can bear to be deprived of everything but our self-conceit.