Dismissals of poetry are nothing new. It’s easy to dismiss poetry if one has not read much of it.
Paris is in a tranquil state; the infernal cabal that besieges me appears guided by foreigners. This idea consoles me, for nothing is so painful as being persecuted by one’s own fellow-citizens.
There’s nothing about my life that I would have changed.
Nothing does reason more right, than the coolness of those that offer it: For Truth often suffers more by the heat of its defenders, than from the arguments of its opposers.
I know that I am intelligent, because I know that I know nothing.
Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.
Is freedom anything else than the right to live as we wish? Nothing else.
Nothing can be more absurd than the practice that prevails in our country of men and women not following the same pursuits with all their strengths and with one mind, for thus, the state instead of being whole is reduced to half.
What pride to discover that nothing belongs to you – what a revelation.
The historian is terribly responsible to what he can discern are the facts of the case, but he’s nothing if he doesn’t make out a case.