There is a sort of man who pays no attention to his good actions, but is tormented by his bad ones. This is the type that most often writes about himself.

Music-hall songs provide the dull with wit, just as proverbs provide them with wisdom.

He exulted in the possession of himself once more; he realized how much of the delight of the world he had lost when he was absorbed in that madness which they called love; he had had enough of it; he did not want to be in love anymore if love was that.

As if a woman ever loved a man for his virtue.

Considering how foolishly people act and how pleasantly they prattle, perhaps it would be better for the world if they talked more and did less.

No married man's ever made up his mind until he's heard what his wife has got to say about it.

Old age has its pleasures, which, though different, are not less than the pleasures of youth.