Most women wish to feel that their spirit has been violated. Do they not, indeed, flatter themselves on never yielding save to force?

Our souls possess the unknown power of extending as well as contracting space.

In the silence of their studios, busied for days at a time with works which leave the mind relatively free, painters become like women; their thoughts can revolve around the minor facts of life and penetrate their hidden meaning.

Kindness steers no easy course. Attributing it to character, we seldom recognize the secret efforts of a noble heart, whereas we reward really wicked people for the evil they refrain from committing.

To feel, to love, to suffer, to devote herself, will always be the text of the life of woman.

It's catastrophies which turn wise and strong people into philosophers.

Who is to decide which is the grimmer sight: withered hearts, or empty skulls?