Lying, like license, has its degrees.

Heavens! whatever possesses us, here below, that we mutually torment ourselves, sourly reproach our mutual faults, and mercilessly condemn all that is not cut according to our pattern?

Oblivion is the flower that grows best on graves.

Our work can never be better than we are ourselves.

Humanity is outraged in me and with me. We must not dissimulate nor try to forget this indignation, which is one of the most passionate forms of love.

Gossiping is the plague of little towns.

The beauty that addresses itself to the eyes is only the spell of the moment; the eye of the body is not always that of the soul.