Men, my dear, are very queer animals—a mixture of horse nervousness, ass stubbornness, and camel malice.

It is remarkable that only small birds properly sing.

Man is merely a more perfect animal than the rest. He reasons better.

In every man is a wild beast; most of them don’t know how to hold it back, and the majority give it full rein when they are not restrained by terror of law.

An ape will be an ape, though clad in purple.

One of the animals which a generous and sociable man would soonest become is a dog. A dog can have a friend; he has affections and character; he can enjoy equally the field and the fireside; he dreams, he caresses, he propitiates; he offends and is pardoned; he stands by you in adversity; he is a good fellow.

Man is a noble animal, splendid in ashes and pompous in the grave.

Animals are such agreeable friends—they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms.

Animals are in possession of themselves; their soul is in possession of their body. But they have no right to their life, because they do not will it. 

Life is no way to treat an animal.

Cows are among the gentlest of breathing creatures; none show more passionate tenderness to their young when deprived of them—and, in short, I am not ashamed to profess a deep love for these quiet creatures.

The fox knows lots of tricks, the hedgehog only one—but it’s a winner.

Man and animals are really the conduit of food, the sepulcher of animals, and resting place of the dead, one causing the death of the other, making themselves the covering for the corruption of other dead bodies.