God is the poet; men are but the actors. The great dramas of earth were written in heaven.
Nobody loves a woman because she is handsome or ugly, stupid or intelligent. We love because we love.
We are never either so wretched or so happy as we say we are.
It is beyond a doubt that during the sixteenth century, and the years immediately preceding and following it, poisoning had been brought to a pitch of perfection which remains unknown to modern chemistry, but which is indisputably proved by history. Italy, the cradle of modern science, was at that time, the inventor and mistress of these secrets, many of which are lost.
Stupidity assumes two forms, it speaks or is silent. Mute stupidity is bearable.
Hatred like love feeds on the merest trifles. Everything adds to it. Just as the being we love can do no wrong, so the one we hate can do no right.
Woman is a delightful instrument of pleasure, but it is necessary to know its trembling strings, to study the position of them, the timid keyboard, the fingering so changeful and capricious which befits it.
Prostitution and robbery are two living protests, respectively female and male, made by the natural state against the social state.
Many people claim coffee inspires them, but, as everybody knows, coffee only makes boring people even more boring.
Our most bitter enemies are our own kith and kin. Kings have no brothers, no sons, no mother!
Poles offer a mobility like that of the wind that blows over the immense plains and marches of Poland. Show a Pole a precipice, and he will leap headlong over it.
Six weeks with a fever is an eternity.
Want him to be more of a man? Try being more of a woman!
First love is a kind of vaccination which saves a man from catching the complaint the second time.
I can no longer think of anything but you. In spite of myself, my imagination carries me to you. I grasp you, I kiss you, I caress you, a thousand of the most amorous caresses take possession of me.
Man is neither good nor bad; he is born with instincts and abilities.
He who best knows the world will love it least.
Among even the happiest married couples there are always moments of regret.
Love is not only a feeling, it is also an art. A simple word, a sensitive precaution, a mere nothing reveal to a woman the sublime artist who can touch her heart without withering it.
People exaggerate both happiness and unhappiness; we are never so fortunate nor so unfortunate as people say we are.
Novelty is both delightful and deceptive.
No woman dares to refuse love without a motive, for nothing is more natural than to yield to love.
Though the human heart may have to pause for rest when climbing the heights of affection it rarely stops on the slippery slope of hatred.
Marriage must incessantly contend with a monster that devours everything: familiarity.
Love is a religion, and its rituals cost more than those of other religions. It goes by quickly and, like a street urchin, it likes to mark its passage by a trail of devastation.
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