Both ardent lovers and austere scholars, when once they come to the years of discretion, love cats, so strong and gentle, the pride of the household, who like them are sensitive to the cold, and sedentary.

There can be no progress-real, moral prgress-except in the individual and by the individual himself.

The Poet is like the prince of the clouds, who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer. Exiled on the ground in the midst of the jeering crowd, his giant's wings keep him from walking.

There is no dream of love, however ideal it may be, which does not end up with a fat, greedy baby hanging from the breast.

It is easy to understand why the rabble dislike cats. A cat is beautiful; it suggests ideas of luxury, cleanliness, voluptuous pleasures.

Perfumes, colours and sounds echo one another.

It is the greatest art of the devil to convince us he does not exist.