The great question in life is the suffering we cause, and the most ingenious metaphysics do not justify the man who has broken the heart that loved him. — Benjamin Constant Copy Share Image
There are things one does not say for a long time, but, once they are said, one never stops repeating them. — Benjamin Constant Copy Share Image
“Woe to the man who in the first moments of a love-affair does not believe that it will last forever! Woe to him who… — Benjamin Constant Copy Share Image
The people who, in order to enjoy the liberty which suites them, resort to the representative system, must exercise an active and constant surveillance… — Benjamin Constant Copy Share Image
“There is indeed in the contemplation of beauty of any kind, something which detaches us from ourselves by making us feel that perfection is… — Benjamin Constant Copy Share Image
The great question in life is the suffering we cause, and the most ingenious metaphysics do not justify the man who has broken the… — Benjamin Constant Copy Share Image
Art for art's sake, with no purpose, for any purpose perverts art. But art achieves a purpose which is not its own. (1804) — Benjamin Constant Copy Share Image
“I detest that fatuity of mind which believes that what is explained is also excused; I hate that vanity which finds it interesting to… — Benjamin Constant Copy Share Image
“Nearly always, so as to live at peace with ourselves, we disguise our own impotence and weakness as calculation and policy; it is our… — Benjamin Constant Copy Share Image
“Consoler of our misery, religion is at the same time the most natural of our emotions. Unknown to us, all our physical sensations, all… — Benjamin Constant Copy Share Image
“We are such volatile creatures, we finally feel sentiments we feign” — Benjamin Constant Copy Share Image
No duty, however, binds us to these so-called laws, whose corrupting influence menaces what is noblest in our being. — Benjamin Constant Copy Share Image
“How would you define the impression of a dark night, of an ancient forest, of the wind moaning through ruins or over graves, of… — Benjamin Constant Copy Share Image
