Moral maxims are surprisingly useful on occasions when we can invent little else to justify our actions.

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It's a lucky man who leaves early from life's banquet, before he's drained to the dregs his goblet - full of wine; yes, it's a lucky man who has not read life's novel to the end, but has been wise enough to part with it abruptly - like me with my Onegin.

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Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.

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If you but knew the flames that burn in me which I attempt to beat down with my reason.

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I’ve lived to bury my desires, And see my dreams corrode with rust; Now all that’s left are fruitless fires That burn my empty heart to dust.

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I want to understand you, I study your obscure language.

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My dreams, my dreams! What has become of their sweetness? What indeed has become of my youth?

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The less we love her when we woo her, The more we draw a woman in,

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He filled a shelf with a small army of books and read and read; but none of it made sense. .. They were all subject to various cramping limitations: those of the past were outdated, and those of the present were obsessed with the past.

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It's a lucky man, a very lucky man, who is committed to what he believes, who has stifled intellectual detachment and can relax in the luxury of his emotions - like a tipsy traveller resting for the night at wayside inn.

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