Passions Are Merely Ideas In Their Initial

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 Want To Reconcile Myself With Heaven, I Want To Love, I Want To Pray, I Want To Believe In Good.

I Have A Congenital Desire To Contradict; My Whole Life Is Merely A Chain Of Sad And Unsuccessful Contradictions To Heart And Mind. When Faced With Enthusiasm, I Am Seized By A Midwinter Freeze, And I Suppose That Frequent Dealings With Sluggish Phlegmatics Would Have Made A Passionate Dreamer.

What Of It? If I Die, I Die. It Will Be No Great Loss To The World, And I Am Thoroughly Bored With Life. I Am Like A Man Yawning At A Ball; The Only Reason He Does Not Go Home To Bed Is That His Carriage Has Not Arrived Yet.

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