Man's condition is horrible because, no matter what form his happiness may take, it arises from some species of ignorance.

Rich women need not fear old age; their gold can always create about them any feelings necessary to their happiness.

Authentic love always assumes the mystery of modesty, even in its expression, because actions speak louder than words. Unlike a feigned love, it feels no need to set a conflagration.

With every one, the expectation of a misfortune constitutes a dreadful, punishment. Suffering then assumes the proportions of the unknown, which is the soul's infinite.

A woman knows the face of the man she loves as a sailor knows the open sea.

With monuments as with men, position means everything.

Hatred like love feeds on the merest trifles.