And I, As I Lived,

I Love Enemies, Though Not In The Christian Way. They Amuse Me, Excite My Blood. Being Always On One’s Guard, Catching Every Glance, The Significance Of Every Word, Guessing At Intentions, Frustrating Their Plots, Pretending To Be Tricked, And Suddenly, With A Shove, Upturning The Whole Enormous And Arduously Built Edifice Of Their Cunning And Schemes—that’s What I Call Life.

The History Of A Man's Soul, Even The Pettiest Soul, Is Hardly Less Interesting And Useful Than The History Of A Whole People; Especially When The Former Is The Result Of The Observations Of A Mature Mind Upon Itself, And Has Been Written Without Any Egotistical Desire Of Arousing Sympathy Or Astonishment. Rousseau's Confessions Has Precisely This Defect – He Read It To His Friends.

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.

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

Evil Spawns Evil. The First Experience Of Torture Gives An Understanding Of The Pleasure In Tormenting Others.