To speak of love is to make love.
Society is no more indulgent than was the God of Genesis.
Journalism is a giant catapult set in motion by pigmy hatreds.
But reason always cuts a poor figure beside sentiment; the one being essentially restricted, like everything that is positive, while the other is infinite.
Chance, my dear, is the sovereign deity in child-bearing.
The mind, too, has its regimen. It needs gymnastics, just like the body does.