Conscience is a cudgel which all men pick up in order to thwack their neighbors instead of applying it to their own shoulders.
Mud, raised by hurricanes, wells up in the noblest and purest of hearts.
The country is provincial; it becomes ridiculous when it tries to ape Paris.
A woman knows the face of the man she loves as a sailor knows the open sea.
Evasion is unworthy of us, and is always the intimate of equivocation.
But reason always cuts a poor figure beside sentiment; the one being essentially restricted, like everything that is positive, while the other is infinite.