Love is perhaps no more than gratitude for pleasure.

I declare, on my soul and conscience, that the attainment of power, or of a great name in literature, seemed to me an easier victory than a success with some young, witty, and gracious lady of high degree.

The woman who is about to deceive her husband always carefully thinks out how she is going to act, but she is never logical.

Hatred like love feeds on the merest trifles.

A mother's life, you see, is one long succession of dramas, now soft and tender, now terrible. Not an hour but has its joys and fears.

We love because we love.

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.