Belief of some sort is the lifeblood of Art.

Woman already controls by not seeming to do so. Talk no more of her rights.

Could we see when and where we are to meet again, we would be more tender when we bid our friends goodbye.

The joy of a strong nature is as cloudless as its suffering is desolate.

We do not want to think. We do not want to hear. We do not care about anything. Only give us a good dinner and plenty of money, and let us outshine our neighbors. There is the Nineteenth Century Gospel.

Scandals are like dandelion seeds--they are arrow-headed, and stick where they fall, and bring forth and multiply fourfold.

Woman's fatal weakness is to desire sympathy and comprehension. --"Wanda