Suicide, moreover, was at the time in vogue in Paris: what more suitable key to the mystery of life for a skeptical society?
The majority of husbands remind me of an orangutan trying to play the violin.
Power is not revealed by striking hard or often, but by striking true.
When Religion and Royalty are swept away, the people will attack the great, and after the great, they will fall upon the rich.
Behind every great fortune lies a great crime.
If we could but paint with the hand what we see with the eye.
Nothing so fortifies a friendship as a belief on the part of one friend that he is superior to the other.
Society bristles with enigmas which look hard to solve. It is a perfect maze of intrigue.
Wisdom is that apprehension of heavenly things to which the spirit rises through love.
First love is a kind of vaccination which saves a man from catching the complaint the second time.
Finance, like time, devours its own children.
No man should marry until he has studied anatomy and dissected at least one woman.
Small natures require despotism to exercise their sinews, as great souls thirst for equality to give play to their heart.
The most virtuous women have something within them, something that is never chaste.
Clouds symbolize the veils that shroud God.
A mother who is really a mother is never free.
There is something great and terrible about suicide.
Power is action the electoral principle is discussion. No political action is possible when discussion is permanently established.
One should believe in marriage as in the immortality of the soul.
Death unites as well as separates it silences all paltry feeling.
Passion is universal humanity. Without it religion, history, romance and art would be useless.
Laws are spider webs through which the big flies pass and the little ones get caught.
Great love affairs start with Champagne and end with tisane.
Marriage must incessantly contend with a monster that devours everything: familiarity.
Men die in despair, while spirits die in ecstasy.
Ideas devour the ages as men are devoured by their passions. When man is cured, human nature will cure itself perhaps.
I do not regard a broker as a member of the human race.
All humanity is passion without passion, religion, history, novels, art would be ineffectual.
The art of motherhood involves much silent, unobtrusive self-denial, an hourly devotion which finds no detail too minute.
Towns find it as hard as houses of business to rise again from ruin.
Love may be or it may not, but where it is, it ought to reveal itself in its immensity.
A young bride is like a plucked flower but a guilty wife is like a flower that had been walked over.
Many men are deeply moved by the mere semblance of suffering in a woman they take the look of pain for a sign of constancy or of love.
A good husband is never the first to go to sleep at night or the last to awake in the morning.
To those who have exhausted politics, nothing remains but abstract thought.
Children, dear and loving children, can alone console a woman for the loss of her beauty.
Nobody loves a woman because she is handsome or ugly, stupid or intelligent. We love because we love.
A grocer is attracted to his business by a magnetic force as great as the repulsion which renders it odious to artists.
Political liberty, the peace of a nation, and science itself are gifts for which Fate demands a heavy tax in blood!
Equality may perhaps be a right, but no power on earth can ever turn it into a fact.
A woman knows the face of the man she loves as a sailor knows the open sea.
The smallest flower is a thought, a life answering to some feature of the Great Whole, of whom they have a persistent intuition.
We exaggerate misfortune and happiness alike. We are never as bad off or as happy as we say we are.
It is only in the act of nursing that a woman realizes her motherhood in visible and tangible fashion it is a joy of every moment.
The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness.
A mother's happiness is like a beacon, lighting up the future but reflected also on the past in the guise of fond memories.
At fifteen, beauty and talent do not exist there can only be promise of the coming woman.