Society proceeds like the ocean. After a disaster, it resume its wonted level and rhythms; its devouring interests efface all traces of damage.

Journalists grow accustomed to seeing evil and they let it pass; they proceed to approve it, and they end by committing it themselves.

True lovers know how trifling a thing is money yet how difficult to blend with love!

To feel, to love, to suffer, to devote herself, will always be the text of the life of woman.

It is not hope but despair that gives us the measure of our ambitions. We may yield secretly to beautiful poems of hope but grief looms start and stripped of all veils.

No navigator has yet traced lines of latitude and longitude on the conjugal sea.

Sometimes at the best moments a single word or a look is enough.'