In the silence of their studios, busied for days at a time with works which leave the mind relatively free, painters become like women; their thoughts can revolve around the minor facts of life and penetrate their hidden meaning.

One admirable trait in women is their lack of illusions about themselves. They never reason about their most blameworthy actions; their feelings carry them away. Even their dissimulation comes naturally to them, and in them crime is free of all baseness. Most of the time they simply do not know how it happened.

Love is precisely to the moral nature what the sun is to the earth.

Several sorts of memory exist in us; body and mind each possesses one peculiar to itself. Nostalgia, for instance, is a malady of the physical memory.

Misfortune, no less than happiness, inspires us to dream.

True love rules especially through memory.

Let nothing dupe you! Such is the horrible maxim that acts as a solvent upon every noble feeling man experiences.