Love is like some fresh spring, first a stream and then a river, changing its aspect and its nature as it flows to plunge itself in some boundless ocean, where restricted natures only find monotony, but where great souls are engulfed in endless contemplation.

The man who enters his wife's dressing room is either a philosopher or a fool.

Your women of fashion ceases to be a woman. She is neither mother, nor wife, nor lover. She is, medically speaking, sex on the brain.

Lovers have a way of using this word "nothing" which implies exactly the opposite.

Misfortune makes of certain souls a vast desert through which rings the voice of God.

Intuition, like the rays of the sun, acts only in an inflexibly straight line; it can guess right only on condition of never diverting its gaze; the freaks of chance disturb it.

In smart society men are jealous of one another after the fashion of women.