But woman brings disorder into society through passion.

Physically, a man is a man for a much longer time than a woman is a woman.

A mother's happiness is like a beacon, lighting up the future but reflected also on the past in the guise of fond memories.

Ideas devour the ages as men are devoured by their passions. When man is cured, human nature will cure itself perhaps.

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

Love may be or it may not, but where it is, it ought to reveal itself in its immensity.

A grass blade believes that men build palaces for it to grow in. Grass wedges its way between the closest blocks of marble and it brings them down. This power of feeble life which can creep in anywhere is greater than that of the mighty behind their cannons.