You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul.

Calumny spreads like an oil-spot: we endeavor to cleanse it, but the mark remains.

Oh, my dear, my tragedy is that you don't need to be loved as I know how to love.

Oh! you shall see how well I know how to love! I can only love; I know only how to love! With moderate faculties, we can yet do much when we center them on a single object.

I read what I feel, and not what I see.

Ah! mon Dieu! how the mind shrinks by loving! it is true that the soul does not, but what can one do with a soul?

I love you as one should, to excess. With folly, delight and despair.