Lying, like license, has its degrees.

Life is a slate where all our sins are written; from time to time we rub the sponge of repentance over it so we can begin sinning again.

I would rather believe that God did not exist than believe that he was indifferent.

We do not precisely enjoy liberty at the Figaro. M. de Latouche, our worthy director (ah! you should know the fellow), is always hanging over us, cutting, pruning, right or wrong, imposing upon us his whims, his aberrations, his fancies, and we have to write as he bids.

The old woman I shall become will be quite different from the woman I am now. Another I is beginning.

Know how to replace in your heart, by the happiness of those you love, the happiness that may be wanting to yourself

It is sad, no doubt, to exhaust one's strength and one's days in cleaving the bosom of this jealous earth, which compels us to wring from it the treasures of its fertility, when a bit of the blackest and coarsest bread is, at the end of the day's work, the sole recompense and the sole profit attaching to so arduous a toil.