God is the poet; men are but the actors. The great dramas of earth were written in heaven.

A sacrament by virtue of which each imparts nothing but vexations to the other.

Who is to decide which is the grimmer sight: withered hearts, or empty skulls?

Who shall ever tell how much an unmerited disfavor crushes a shy person? Who can ever depict the misfortunes of timidity?

When one of those skirt-bearing animals has set herself up above all by permitting herself to be deified, no power on earth can be as proud as she.

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?

For certain people, misfortune is a beacon that lights up the dark and baser sides of social life.