Carelessness in dressing is moral suicide.

We exaggerate misfortune and happiness alike. We are never as bad off or as happy as we say we are.

What moralists describe as the mysteries of the human heart are solely the deceiving thoughts, the spontaneous impulses of self-regard. The sudden changes in character, about which so much has been said, are instinctive calculations for the furtherance of our own pleasures. Seeing himself now in his fine clothes, his new gloves and shoes, Eugène de Rastignac forgot his noble resolve. Youth, when it swerves toward wrong, dares not look in the mirror of conscience; maturity has already seen itself there. That is the whole difference between the two phases of life.

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

No woman allows her lover to descend from his pedestal. Even a god is not forgiven the slightest pettiness.

Events are never absolute, their outcome depends entirely upon the individual. Misfortune is a stepping stone for a genius, a piscina for a Christian, a treasure for a man of parts, and an abyss for a weakling.

Doubt follows white-winged hope with trembling steps.