Francois de La Rochefoucauld Art Quotations

When the heart is still disturbed by the relics of a passion it is proner to take up a new one than when wholly cured.

Not all those who know their minds know their hearts as well.

To listen closely and reply well is the highest perfection we are able to attain in the art of conversation.

Numberless arts appear foolish whose secret motives are most wise and weighty.

The accent of one's birthplace remains in the mind and in the heart as in one's speech.

Before we set our hearts too much upon anything, let us examine how happy they are, who already possess it.

If we are to judge of love by its consequences, it more nearly resembles hatred than friendship.

To eat is a necessity, but to eat intelligently is an art.

The passions are the only orators that always persuade: they are, as it were, a natural art, the rules of which are infallible; and the simplest man with passion is more persuasive than the most eloquent without it.

In the human heart there is a ceaseless birth of passions, so that the destruction of one is almost always the establishment of another.

The head does not know how to play the part of the heart for long.

It is more often from pride than from defective understanding that people oppose established opinions: they find the best places taken in the good party and are reluctant to accept inferior ones.

We cannot possibly imagine the variety of contradictions in every heart.

The mind is always the patsy of the heart.

The constancy of the wise is only the talent of concealing the agitation of their hearts.

The constancy of sages is nothing but the art of locking up their agitation in their hearts.

The art of using moderate abilities to advantage often brings greater results than actual brilliance

The art of putting into play mediocre qualities often begets more reputation than is achieved by true merit.

Sincerity is an openness of heart; we find it in very few people; what we usually see is only an artful dissimulation to win the confidence of others.

Imagination does not enable us to invent as many different contradictions as there are by nature in every heart.

It appears that nature has hid at the bottom of our hearts talents and abilities unknown to us. It is only the passions that have the power of bringing them to light, and sometimes give us views more true and more perfect than art could possibly do.

Imagination could never invent the number of different contradictions that exist innately in each person's heart.

In the human heart one generation of passions follows another; from the ashes of one springs the spark of the next.

If there be a love pure and free from the admixture of our other passions, it is that which lies hidden in the bottom of our heart, and which we know not ourselves.

The accent of a man's native country remains in his mind and his heart, as it does in his speech.

It is easier to know men in general, than men in particular.

In the human heart new passions are forever being born; the overthrow of one almost always means the rise of another.

Every one speaks well of his own heart, but no one dares speak well of his own mind.

The mind cannot long play the heart's role.

The heart is forever making the head its fool.

If we judge love by most of its effects, it resembles rather hatred than affection.

The intellect is always fooled by the heart.

A man often believes himself leader when he is led; as his mind endeavors to reach one goal, his heart insensibly drags him towards another.

History never embraces more than a small part of reality

Sincerity is a certain openness of heart. It is to be found in very few, and what we commonly look upon to be so is only a cunningsort of dissimulation, to insinuate ourselves into the confidence of others.

Constancy in love is a perpetual inconstancy which fixes our hearts successively to all the qualities of the person loved--sometimes admiring one and sometimes another above all the rest--so that this constancy roves as far as it can, and is no better than inconstancy, confined within the compass of one person.

The heart of man ever finds a constant succession of passions, so that the destroying and pulling down of one proves generally tobe nothing else but the production and the setting up of another.

The reason we do not let our friends see the very bottom of our hearts is not so much distrust of them as distrust of ourselves.

All who know their own minds know not their own hearts.

The constancy of the wise is only the art of keeping disquietude to one's self.

We often persuade ourselves to love people who are more powerful than we are, yet interest alone produces our friendship; we do not give our hearts away for the good we wish to do, but for that we expect to receive.

Everyone praises his heart, none dare praise their understanding.