Tradesmen regard an author with a mixed feeling of terror, compassion and curiosity.

There is something great and terrible about suicide.

Happiness lends poetic charms to woman, and dress adorns her like a delicate tinge of rouge.

When an intelligent man reaches the point of inviting self-explanation and offers surrendering the key to his heart, he is assuredly riding a drunken horse.

Your women of fashion ceases to be a woman. She is neither mother, nor wife, nor lover. She is, medically speaking, sex on the brain.

He has great tranquility of heart who cares neither for the praises nor the fault-finding of men.

It is as easy to dream a book as it is hard to write one.