A priest can achieve great victories with an army of women at his command.

My intellect is a little way upon the wrong side of that narrow boundary-line between sanity and insanity.

love, which is a madness, and a scourge, and a fever, and a delusion, and a snare, is also a mystery, and very imperfectly understood by everyone except the individual sufferer who writhes under its tortures.

When once estrangement has arisen between those who truly love each other, everything seems to widen the breach.

There can be no reconciliation where there is no open warfare. There must be a battle, a brave boisterous battle, with pennants waving and cannon roaring, before there can be peaceful treaties and enthusiastic shaking of hands.

A priest can achieve great victories with an army of women at his command.

Our virtues, as well as our vices, are often scourges for our own backs.