When intimacy followed love in Italy there were no longer any vain pretensions between two lovers.
Far less envy in America than in France.
One-half, the finest half, of life is hidden from the man who does not love with passion.
Life is too short, and the time we waste in yawning never can be regained.
The ordinary procedure of the nineteenth century is that when a powerful and noble personage encounters a man of feeling, he kills, exiles, imprisons or so humiliates him that the other, like a fool, dies of grief.
I have a bad memory for facts.