The wounds of self-love turn incurable when the oxide of self-love gets into them.

Suicide, moreover, was at the time in vogue in Paris: what more suitable key to the mystery of life for a skeptical society?

Cruelty and fear shake hands together.

The Parisan, sauntering the streets idly, is as often a man in despair as a lounger.

Are not poets men who fulfill their hopes prematurely?

For passion, be it observed, brings insight with it; it can give a sort of intelligence to simpletons, fools, and idiots, especially during youth.

Between the daylight gambler and the player at night there is the same difference that lies between a careless husband and the lover swooning under his lady's window.