Dieu ne nous remplit qu'autant que nous sommes vides.
Quelques-uns prennent pour de l'amitié ce qui est de la charité.
Les grandes idées ne sont pas charitables.
Les vieillards meurent parce qu'ils ne sont plus aimés.
Vivent mes ennemis ! Eux du moins ne peuvent pas me trahir.
Tout ce qui est naturel est injuste.
Les remords meurent, comme le reste. Et il y en a dont le souvenir embaume.
© 2026 My French LLC
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