The country is provincial; it becomes ridiculous when it tries to ape Paris.
The life of a man who deliberately runs through his fortune often becomes a business speculation; his friends, his pleasures, patrons, and acquaintances are his capital.
The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness.
The habits of life form the soul, and the soul forms the countenance.
Political liberty, the peace of a nation, and science itself are gifts for which Fate demands a heavy tax in blood!
The duration of passion is proportionate with the original resistance of the woman.
The art of motherhood involves much silent, unobtrusive self-denial, an hourly devotion which finds no detail too minute.
Suicide, moreover, was at the time in vogue in Paris: what more suitable key to the mystery of life for a skeptical society?
Study lends a kind of enchantment to all our surroundings.
Solitude is fine, but you need someone to tell you that solitude is fine.
Society bristles with enigmas which look hard to solve. It is a perfect maze of intrigue.
The fact is that love is of two kinds, one which commands, and one which obeys. The two are quite distinct, and the passion to which the one gives rise is not the passion of the other.