Love is the poetry of the senses.

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.

The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness.

The country is provincial; it becomes ridiculous when it tries to ape Paris.

Men are such dupes by choice, that he who would impose upon others never need be at a loss to find ready victims.

Our most natural feelings are those we are loath to confess, and fatuity is among them.

Isn't it really quite extraordinary to see that, since man took his first step, no one has asked himself why he walks, how he walks, if he has ever walked, if he could walk better, what he achieves in walking .. questions that are tied to all the philosophical, psychological, and political systems which preoccupy the world.