The greatest joy a petty soul can taste is to dupe a great soul and catch it in a snare.
Hatred is the vice of narrow souls; they feed it with all their littleness, and make it the pretext of base tyrannies.
The habits of life form the soul, and the soul forms the countenance.
Sensuality is the death of the soul.
Misfortune makes of certain souls a vast desert through which rings the voice of God.
Our souls possess the unknown power of extending as well as contracting space.
Lofty souls are always inclined to make a virtue of misfortune.
With every one, the expectation of a misfortune constitutes a dreadful, punishment. Suffering then assumes the proportions of the unknown, which is the soul's infinite.
Vulgar souls look hastily and superficially at the sea and accuse it of monotony; other more privileged beings could spend a lifetime admiring it and discovering new and changing phenomena that delight them. So it is with love.
Genuine sorrows are very tranquil in appearance in the deep bed they have dug for themselves. But, seeming to slumber, they corrode the soul like that frightful acid which penetrates crystal.
But does not happiness come from the soul within?
All we are is in the soul.
Virtue, perhaps, is nothing more than politeness of soul.