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Often we pass beside happiness without seeing it, without looking at it, or even if we have seen and looked at it, without recognizing it.
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Does the open wound in another's breast soften the pain of the gaping wound in our own? Or does the blood which is welling from another man's side staunch that which is pouring from our own? Does the general anguish of our fellow creatures lessen our own private and particular anguish? No, no, each suffers on his own account, each struggles with his own grief, each sheds his own tears.
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I prefer the wicked rather than the foolish. The wicked sometimes rest.
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Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes.
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It is rare that one can see in a little boy the promise of a man, but one can almost always see in a little girl the threat of a woman.
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It is the way of weakened minds to see everything through a black cloud. The soul forms its own horizons; your soul is darkened, and consequently the sky of the future appears stormy and unpromising.
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It is almost as difficult to keep a first class person in a fourth class job, as it is to keep a fourth class person in a first class job.
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Everyone knows that drunkards and lovers have a protecting diety.
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The tree forsakes not the flower: the flower falls from the tree.
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Never fear quarrels, but seek hazardous adventures.
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Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind, a mind not of the women but of the poet; she did not please, she intoxicated.
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Order is the key to all problems.
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There are two ways of seeing: with the body and with the soul. The body's sight can sometimes forget, but the soul remembers forever.
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So rapid is the flight of our dreams upon the wings of imagination.
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There are misfortunes in life that no one will accept; people would rather believe in the supernatural and the impossible.
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So heavy is the chain of wedlock that it needs two to carry it, and sometimes three.
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There is no friendship that cares about an overheard secret.
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Why, in truth, sir," was Monte Cristo's reply, "man is but an ugly caterpillar for him who studies him through a solar microscope; but you said, I think, that I had nothing else to do. Now, really, let me ask, sir, have you? — do you believe you have anything to do? or to speak in plain terms, do you really think that what you do deserves being called anything?
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Here is your final lesson - do not commit the crime for which you now serve the sentence. God said, "Vengeance is mine." He believes in you.
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Now I'd like someone to tell me there is no drama in real life!