All men hate the wretched.

Here were we wretched creatures of men making for each other's throats, and outraging the good earth which God had made so fair a habitation.

Most men are wicked.

Such miserable creatures of circumstance are we all!

All men that are ruined, are ruined on the side of their natural propensities.

Men are such faithless creatures

Man's greatness comes from knowing he is wretched.

What a sad thing men are. Can't do nothing good without being so weak we have to mess it up. Can't build something without tearing it down.
It ain't the Spackle that drove us to the end.
It was ourselves.

It can truly be said: Men are the devils of the earth, and the animals are the tormented souls.

All men are sinners.

What a lamentable thing it is that men should blame the gods and regard us as the source of their troubles, when it is their own wickedness that brings them sufferings worse than any which destiny allots them.

Man is so wretched that, while directing all his conduct towards satisfying his passions, he constantly moans about their tyranny: he cannot bear their violence, nor the violence he must use against himself in order to free himself from their yoke; he finds them disgusting, but so too their remedies, and he cannot come to terms with the pain of his illness, nor with the labour necessary for a cure.

You will know that wretched men are the cause of their own suffering, who neither see nor hear the good that is near them, and few are the ones who know how to secure release from their troubles. Such is the fate that harms their minds; like pebbles they are tossed about from one thing to another with cares unceasing. For the dread companion Strife harms them unawares, whom one must not walk behind, but withdraw from and flee.

As a species, we were an abomination. All of us.