I prefer thought to action, an idea to a transaction, contemplation to activity.

My writing table has seen all my wretchedness, knows all my plans, has overheard all my thoughts.

Love is perhaps no more than gratitude for pleasure.

In a world of hunchbacks, a fine figure becomes a monstrosity.

In Paris every man must have had a love affair. What woman wants something that no other woman ever wanted.

Is there any instinct more deeply implanted in the heart of man than the pride of protection, a protection which is constantly exerted for a fragile and defenceless creature?

If certain women walk straight into adultery, there are many others who cling to numerous hopes, and commit sin only after wandering through a maze of sorrows.