The son will run away from the family not at eighteen but at twelve, emancipated by his gluttonous precocity; he will fly not to seek heroic adventures, not to deliver a beautiful prisoner from a tower, not to immortalize a garret with sublime thoughts, but to found a business, to enrich himself and to compete with his infamous papa.

Cats, so strong and gentle, the pride of the household.

The artist is today and has been for many years, despite his absence of merit, simply a spoiled child. So many honors, so much money bestowed on men without souls and without education.

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

Progress, this great heresy of decay.

It is the pleasure of astonishing others, and the proud satisfaction of never being astonished by them.

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.