Politics in a literary work, is like a gun shot in the middle of a concert, something vulgar, and however, something which is impossible to ignore.

Prudery is a kind of avarice, the worst of all.

A woman of generous character will sacrifice her life a thousand times over for her lover, but will break with him for ever over a question of pride.

I no longer find such pleasure in that preeminently good society, of which I was once so fond. It seems to me that beneath a cloak of clever talk it proscribes all energy, all originality. If you are not a copy, people accuse you of being ill-mannered.

The difference breeds hatred.

Perhaps men who cannot love passionately are those who feel the effect of beauty most keenly; at any rate this is the strongest impression women can make on them.

But, if I sample this pleasure so prudently and circumspectly, it will no longer be a pleasure.