No man has ever yet discovered the way to give friendly advice to any woman, not even to his own wife.

There are moments in life when all we can bear is the sense that our friend is near us; our wounds would wince at the touch of consoling words, that would reveal the depths of our pain.

Bureaucracy is a giant mechanism operated by pygmies.

The art of motherhood involves much silent, unobtrusive self-denial, an hourly devotion which finds no detail too minute.

The innocence of virgins is like milk which turns when exposed to a clap of thunder, to a tart smell, to a hot day, to the merest nothing.

To have fame follow us is well, but it is not a desirable avant-courier.

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