Men are perfectly willing to abandon a woman but they refuse to be abandoned by her.
Paris, like every pretty woman, is subject to inexplicable whims of beauty and ugliness.
Necessity is often the spur to genius.
The duration of passion is proportionate with the original resistance of the woman.
Whereas scoundrels become reconciled after knifing one another, lovers break up irrevocably over a mere glance or word.
For passion, be it observed, brings insight with it; it can give a sort of intelligence to simpletons, fools, and idiots, especially during youth.
Hope is a memory that desires, the memory is a memory that has enjoyed.
What makes friendship indissolute and what doubles its charms is a feeling we find lacking in love: I mean certitude.
Marriage must perforce fight against the all-devouring monster of habit.
One of the most detestable habits of Lilliputian minds is to find their own littleness in others.
The day will dawn when Europe will believe only in the man who tramples her underfoot.
Old men are prone to invest the futures of young men with their own past sorrows.
A great writer is nothing less than a martyr who does not die.
With a woman, always make good use of a secret. She will be proportionally grateful to you, like a scoundrel who grants his respect to an honest man he has been unable to swindle.
In the first woman we love, we love everything. Growing older, we love the woman only.
For a sick man the world begins at his pillow and ends at the foot of his bed.
Love has its own instinct, finding the way to the heart, as the feeblest insect finds the way to its flower, with a will which nothing can dismay nor turn aside.
Who shall ever tell how much an unmerited disfavor crushes a shy person? Who can ever depict the misfortunes of timidity?
Imaginative, sanguine men will never recognize that in negotiations the most dangerous moment of all is when everything is moving according to their wishes.
Physically, a man is a man for a much longer time than a woman is a woman.
Ideas devour the ages as men are devoured by their passions. When man is cured, human nature will cure itself perhaps.
How sternly we reproach virtue for its failings, how indulgent we are to the better qualities of vice!
Chance, my dear, is the sovereign deity in child-bearing.
The habits of life form the soul, and the soul forms the physical presence.
Nature makes only dumb animals. We owe the fools to society.
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