To be happy, a man must love his wife as she chooses to be loved.

Our most natural feelings are those we are loath to confess, and fatuity is among them.

The Parisan, sauntering the streets idly, is as often a man in despair as a lounger.

Are not poets men who fulfill their hopes prematurely?

What is a child, monsieur, but the image of two beings, the fruit of two sentiments spontaneously blended?

Only when one has learned to acknowledge that wiser minds have made better words to come out of our mouths may we truly, then, begin to speak them.

The impossible is justified by the fact that it occurred