I am ashamed of confessing that I have nothing to confess.
There is something in age that ever, even in its own despite, must be venerable, must create respect and to have it ill treated, is to me worse, more cruel and wicked than anything on earth.
To despise riches, may, indeed, be philosophic, but to dispense them worthily, must surely be more beneficial to mankind.
Insensibility, of all kinds, and on all occasions, most moves my imperial displeasure.
The mind is but too naturally prone to pleasure, but too easily yielded to dissipation.
To whom, then, must I dedicate my wonderful, surprising and interesting adventures? to whom dare I reveal my private opinion of my nearest relations? the secret thoughts of my dearest friends? my own hopes, fears, reflections and dislikes? Nobody!