Man Is Neither Good Nor Bad; He

Vulgar Souls Look Hastily And Superficially At The Sea And Accuse It Of Monotony; Other More Privileged Beings Could Spend A Lifetime Admiring It And Discovering New And Changing Phenomena That Delight Them. So It Is With Love.

Let Passion Reach A Catastrophe And It Submits Us To An Intoxicating Force Far More Powerful Than The Niggardly Irritation Of Wine Or Of Opium. The Lucidity Our Ideas Then Achieve, And The Delicacy Of Our Overly Exalted Sensations, Produce The Strangest And Most Unexpected Effects.

We Are Scarcely Apt To Berate The Source Of Enjoyment.

A Murderer Is Less Loathsome To Us Than A Spy. The Murderer May Have Acted On A Sudden Mad Impulse; He May Be Penitent And Amend; But A Spy Is Always A Spy, Night And Day, In Bed, At Table, As He Walks Abroad; His Vileness Pervades Every Moment Of His Life

The Wounds Of Self-love Turn Incurable When The Oxide Of Self-love Gets Into Them.