Your modest savant smiles as he says to his admirers: What have I done? Nothing. Man does not invent a force, he directs it.

Carelessness in dressing is moral suicide.

To stroll is a science, it is the gastronomy of the eye. To walk is to vegetate, to stroll is to live.... To stroll is to enjoy, it is to assume a mind-set, it is to admire the sublime pictures of unhappiness, of love, of joy, of graceful or grotesque portraits; it is to plunge one's vision to the depths of a thousand existences: young, it is to desire everything; old, it is to live the life of the young, to marry their passions.

I do not regard a broker as a member of the human race.

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

Though your vulgarian does not readily admit that feelings can change overnight, certainly two lovers often part far more abruptly than they came together.

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