There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature, that every fibre of the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful impulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination, and disobedience its charm.

There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.

The sin was mine; I did not understand. So now is music prisoned in her cave, Save where some ebbing desultory wave Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.

Women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders.

Everyone is born a king, and most people die in exile.

A sentimentalist is simply one who desires to have the luxury of an emotion without paying for it.

The only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life.