PRINCE ZILAH

A man's life belongs to his duty, andnot to his happinessAll defeats have their genesesAn hour of rest between two ordeals, asmile between two sobsAnonymous, that velvet mask of scandal-mongersAt every step the reality splashes youwith mudBullets are not necessarily on the sideof the rightDoes one ever forget?Foreigners are more Parisian than theParisians themselvesHistory is written, not made."I might forgive," said Andras; "but Icould not forget"If well-informed people are to bebelieveInsanity is, perhaps, simply the idealrealizedIt is so good to know nothing, nothing,nothingLet the dead past bury its dead!Life is a tempestMan who expects nothing of life exceptits endingNervous natures, as prompt to hope asto despairNo answer to make to one who has noright to question meNot only his last love, but his onlyloveNothing ever astonishes meOne of those beings who die, as theyhave lived, childrenPessimism of to-day sneering at hisconfidence of yesterdayPlaying checkers, that mimic warfare ofold menPoverty brings wrinklesSufferer becomes, as it were, enamoredof his own agonySuperstition which forbids one toproclaim his happinessTaken the times as they areThe Hungarian was created on horsebackThere were too many discussions, andnot enough actionUnable to speak, for each word wouldhave been a sobWhat matters it how much we sufferWhy should I read the newspapers?Willingly seek a new sorrowWould not be astonished at anythingYou suffer?  Is fate so just as that