A man's life belongs to his duty, and
not to his happiness

All defeats have their geneses

An hour of rest between two ordeals, a
smile between two sobs

Anonymous, that velvet mask of scandal-
mongers

At every step the reality splashes you
with mud

Bullets are not necessarily on the side
of the right

Does one ever forget?

Foreigners are more Parisian than the
Parisians themselves

History is written, not made.

"I might forgive," said Andras; "but I
could not forget"

If well-informed people are to be
believe

Insanity is, perhaps, simply the ideal
realized

It is so good to know nothing, nothing,
nothing

Let the dead past bury its dead!

Life is a tempest

Man who expects nothing of life except
its ending

Nervous natures, as prompt to hope as
to despair

No answer to make to one who has no
right to question me

Not only his last love, but his only
love

Nothing ever astonishes me

One of those beings who die, as they
have lived, children

Pessimism of to-day sneering at his
confidence of yesterday

Playing checkers, that mimic warfare of
old men

Poverty brings wrinkles

Sufferer becomes, as it were, enamored
of his own agony

Superstition which forbids one to
proclaim his happiness

Taken the times as they are

The Hungarian was created on horseback

There were too many discussions, and
not enough action

Unable to speak, for each word would
have been a sob

What matters it how much we suffer

Why should I read the newspapers?

Willingly seek a new sorrow

Would not be astonished at anything

You suffer?  Is fate so just as that