The pleasures of love proceed successively from a distich to a quatrain, from a quatrain to a sonnet, from a sonnet to a ballad, from a ballad to an ode, from an ode to a cantata, and from a cantata to a dithyramb. A husband who begins with the dithyramb is a fool.

The happier a man, the more apt he is to tremble. In hearts exclusively tender, anxiety and jealousy are in exact proportion to happiness.

The response man has the greatest difficulty in tolerating is pity, especially when he warrants it. Hatred is a tonic, it makes one live, it inspires vengeance, but pity kills, it makes our weakness weaker.

A great writer is nothing less than a martyr who does not die.

No woman allows her lover to descend from his pedestal. Even a god is not forgiven the slightest pettiness.

Love endows us with a sort of personal religion; we respect another live within ourselves.

Sects differ more in name than tenets.