But Valentine, why despair, why always paint the future in such sombre hues?" Maximilien asked. "Because, my friend, I judge it by the past.
In love, writing is dangerous, not to mention pointless.
Pure love and suspicion cannot dwell together: at the door where the latter enters, the former makes its exit.
I am not proud, but I am happy; and happiness blinds, I think, more than pride.
The merit of all things lies in their difficulty.
Youth is a blossom whose fruit is love; happy is he who plucks it after watching it slowly ripen.