One hour of love has a whole life in it.
People who climb from one rung of society to another can never do anything simply.
Who is to decide which is the grimmer sight: withered hearts, or empty skulls?
For pain is perhaps but a violent pleasure? Who could determine the point where pleasure becomes pain, where pain is still a pleasure? Is not the utmost brightness of the ideal world soothing to us, while the lightest shadows of the physical world annoy?
Love is precisely to the moral nature what the sun is to the earth.
A husband and wife who have separate bedrooms have either drifted apart or found happiness.