Many men are deeply moved by the mere semblance of suffering in a woman; they take the look of pain for a sign of constancy or of love.

The wounds of self-love turn incurable when the oxide of self-love gets into them.

Nothing is irredeemably ugly but sin.

The great secret of social alchemy is to profit best from each stage in our lives, to gather all its leaves in spring, all its flowers in summer, and all its fruits in autumn.

Nature makes only dumb animals. We owe the fools to society.

What patient can trust the knowledge of a physician without reputation or furniture, in a period when publicity is all-powerful and when the government gilds the lamp posts on the Place de la Concorde in order to dazzle the poor?

Sometimes at the best moments a single word or a look is enough.'