I have so much in me, and the feeling for her absorbs it all; I have so much, and without her it all comes to nothing.

We can stand only a certain amount of unhappiness; anything beyond that annihilates us or passes us by, leaving us apathethetic.

Our passions are true phoenixes; as the old burn out the new straight rise up from the ashes.

Self-love exaggerates our faults as well as our virtues.

Woman is mistress of the art of completely imbittering the life of the person on whom she depends.

Sound and sufficient reason falls, after all, to the share of but few men, and those few men exert their influence in silence.

The happy do not believe in miracles.