Passions Are Merely Ideas In Their Initial

Russian Ladies, For The Most Part, Cherish Only Platonic Love, Without Mingling Any Thought Of Matrimony With It; And Platonic Love Is Exceedingly Embarrassing.

I Was Lying, But I Wanted To Rouse Him. I Have An Inborn Urge To Contradict; My Whole Life Has Been A Mere Chain Of Sad And Futile Opposition To The Dictates Of Either Heart Or Reason. The Presence Of An Enthusiast Makes Me As Cold As A Midwinter's Day, And, I Believe, Frequent Association With A Listless Phlegmatic Would Make Me An Impassioned Dreamer.

I Was Modest--they Accused Me Of Being Crafty: I Became Secretive. I Felt Deeply Good And Evil--nobody Caressed Me, Everybody Offended Me: I Became Rancorous. I Was Gloomy--other Children Were Merry And Talkative. I Felt Myself Superior To Them--but Was Considered Inferior: I Became Envious. I Was Ready To Love The Whole World--none Understood Me: And I Learned To Hate.

If Only People Thought A Little More About It, They Would See That Life Is Not Worrying About So Much.

In Simple Hearts The Feeling For The Beauty And Grandeur Of Nature Is A Hundred-fold Stronger And More Vivid Than In Us, Ecstatic Composers Of Narratives In Words And On Paper.