I'm a great poet. I don't put my poems on paper: they consist of actions and feelings.

Society bristles with enigmas which look hard to solve. It is a perfect maze of intrigue.

When attempted self-destruction does not cure a man of life, it cures him of voluntary death.

Alas, two men are often necessary to provide a woman with a perfect lover, just as in literature a writer composes a type only by employing the singularities of several similar characters.

The victory always has a lot of parents but the defeat is always an orphan.

Jealousy, an eminently credulous and suspicious passion, allows fancy the greatest possible play. But it does not bestow wit, it banishes all sense.

Love has its own instinct, finding the way to the heart, as the feeblest insect finds the way to its flower, with a will which nothing can dismay nor turn aside.