I see but one rule: to be clear. If I am not clear, all my world crumbles to nothing.
Signs cannot be represented, in a spy's report, so damningly as words.
Beauty is nothing other than the promise of happiness.
A forty-year-old woman is only something to men who have loved her in her youth.
Love born in the brain is more spirited, doubtless, than true love, but it has only flashes of enthusiasm; it knows itself too well, it criticizes itself incessantly; so far from banishing thought, it is itself reared only upon a structure of thought.
Pleasure is often spoiled by describing it.