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.
People exaggerate both happiness and unhappiness; we are never so fortunate nor so unfortunate as people say we are.
Pity is woman's sweetest charm.
The first thing necessary to win the heart of a woman is opportunity.
Passion is universal humanity. Without it religion, history, romance and art would be useless.
I do not regard a broker as a member of the human race.
Virtue is not a thing you can have by halves; it is or it is not.
Men are so made that they can resist sound argument, and yet yield to a glance.
Man is neither good nor bad; he is born with instincts and abilities.
Want him to be more of a man? Try being more of a woman!
A man is a poor creature compared to a woman.
White hair often covers the head, but the heart that holds it is ever young.
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.
No man should marry until he has studied anatomy and dissected at least one woman.
A mother who is really a mother is never free.
True love is eternal, infinite, and always like itself. It is equal and pure, without violent demonstrations: it is seen with white hairs and is always young in the heart.
Marriage must incessantly contend with a monster that devours everything: familiarity.
Six weeks with a fever is an eternity.
Noble hearts are neither jealous nor afraid because jealousy spells doubt and fear spells pettiness.
It is a singular fact that most men of action incline to the theory of fatalism, while the greater part of men of thought believe in providence.
Give to a wounded heart seclusion; consolation nor reason ever effected anything in such a case.
Everything becomes agitated. Ideas quick-march into motion like battalions of a grand army to its legendary fighting ground, and the battle rages. Memories charge in, bright flags on high; the cavalry of metaphor deploys with a magnificent gallop; the artillery of logic rushes up with clattering wagons and cartridges; on imagination's orders, sharpshooters sight and fire; forms and shapes and characters rear up; the paper is spread with ink - for the nightly labor begins and ends with torrents of this black water, as a battle opens and concludes with black powder.
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.
One hour of love has a whole life in it.
A lover always thinks of his mistress first and himself second; with a husband it runs the other way.
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