One forgives to the degree that one loves.
We often forgive those who bore us, but we cannot forgive those whom we bore.
There is only one kind of love, but there are a thousand imitations.
What men have called friendship is only a social arrangement, a mutual adjustment of interests, an interchange of services given and received; it is, in sum, simply a business from which those involved propose to derive a steady profit for their own self-love.
If we are to judge of love by its consequences, it more nearly resembles hatred than friendship.
In friendship as well as love, ignorance very often contributes more to our happiness than knowledge.
When we are in love we often doubt that which we most believe.
If we resist our passions, it is more due to their weakness than our strength.
Quarrels would not last long if the fault was only on one side.
The desire to seem clever often keeps us from being so.
We are strong enough to bear the misfortunes of others.
We get so much in the habit of wearing disguises before others that we finally appear disguised before ourselves.
We would rather speak ill of ourselves than not talk about ourselves at all.
Why can we remember the tiniest detail that has happened to us, and not remember how many times we have told it to the same person.
Everyone complains of his memory, and nobody complains of his judgment.
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