Francois de La Rochefoucauld
Francois de La Rochefoucauld
François VI, Duc de La Rochefoucauld, Prince de Marcillacla ʁɔʃfuˈko]; 15 September 1613 – 17 March 1680) was a noted French author of maxims and memoirs. It is said that his world-view was clear-eyed and urbane, and that he neither condemned human conduct nor sentimentally celebrated it. Born in Paris on the Rue des Petits Champs, at a time when the royal court was vacillating between aiding the nobility and threatening it, he was considered an exemplar of the accomplished 17th-century...
NationalityFrench
ProfessionWriter
Date of Birth15 September 1613
CountryFrance
It is as easy to deceive one's self without perceiving it, as it is difficult to deceive others without their finding out.
There are some disguised falsehoods so like truths, that 'twould be to judge ill not to be deceived by them.
We are never so easily deceived as when we imagine we are deceiving others.
Behind many acts that are thought ridiculous there lie wise and weighty motives.
If there be a love pure and free from the admixture of our other passions, it is that which lies hidden in the bottom of our heart, and which we know not ourselves.
Hope, deceiving as it is, serves at least to lead us to the end of our lives by an agreeable route.
Our aversion to lying is commonly a secret ambition to make what we say considerable, and have every word received with a religious respect.
A man's wits are better employed in bearing up under the misfortunes that lie upon him at present than in foreseeing those that may come upon him hereafter.
Our wisdom lies as much at the mercy of fortune as our possessions do.
The aversion to lying is often a hidden ambition to render our words credible and weighty, and to attach a religious aspect to our conversation.
In most of mankind gratitude is merely a secret hope of further favors.
You can find women who have never had an affair, but it is hard to find a woman who has had just one.
We often pardon those that annoy us, but we cannot pardon those we annoy.
How is it that we remember the least triviality that happens to us, and yet not remember how often we have recounted it to the same person?