A terrible danger lurks in the knowledge of what is possible Accustomed to call its disguise virtue All that is not life, it is the noise of life Become corrupt, and you will cease to suffer Began to forget my own sorrow in my sympathy for her Beware of disgust, it is an incurable evil Death is more to be desired than a living distaste for life Despair of a man sick of life, or the whim of a spoiled child Do they think they have invented what they see Force itself, that mistress of the world Galileo struck the earth, crying: "Nevertheless it moves!" Grief itself was for her but a means of seducing He lives only in the body Human weakness seeks association I boasted of being worse than I really was I can not love her, I can not love another I do not intend either to boast or abase myself Ignorance into which the Greek clergy plunged the laity In what do you believe? Indignation can solace grief and restore happiness Is he a dwarf or a giant Men doubted everything: the young men denied everything Of all the sisters of love, the most beautiful is pity Perfection does not exist Resorted to exaggeration in order to appear original Sceptic regrets the faith he has lost the power to regain Seven who are always the same: the first is called hope St. Augustine Ticking of which (our arteries) can be heard only at night When passion sways man, reason follows him weeping and warning Wine suffuses the face as if to prevent shame appearing there You believe in what is said here below and not in what is done You turn the leaves of dead books Youth is to judge of the world from first impressions CHILD OF A CENTURY, ALFRED DE MUSSET, V2 [IM#27][im27b10.txt]3940 Adieu, my son, I love you and I die All philosophy is akin to atheism And when love is sure of itself and knows response Can any one prevent a gossip Each one knows what the other is about to say Good and bad days succeeded each other almost regularly Great sorrows neither accuse nor blaspheme--they listen Happiness of being pursued He who is loved by a beautiful woman is sheltered from every blow I neither love nor esteem sadness It is a pity that you must seek pastimes Man who suffers wishes to make her whom he loves suffer No longer esteemed her highly enough to be jealous of her Pure caprice that I myself mistook for a flash of reason Quarrel had been, so to speak, less sad than our reconciliation She pretended to hope for the best Terrible words; I deserve them, but they will kill me There are two different men in you We have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us a large sum What human word will ever express thy slightest caress What you take for love is nothing more than desire CHILD OF A CENTURY, ALFRED DE MUSSET, V3 [IM#28][im28b10.txt]3941