No Man Should Marry Until

Events Are Never Absolute, Their Outcome Depends Entirely Upon The Individual. Misfortune Is A Stepping Stone For A Genius, A Piscina For A Christian, A Treasure For A Man Of Parts, And An Abyss For A Weakling.

All Men Can Bear A Familiar, Definite Misfortune Better Than The Cruel Alternations Of A Fate Which, From One Moment To Another, Brings Excessive Joy Or Sorrow.

In The Silence Of Their Studios, Busied For Days At A Time With Works Which Leave The Mind Relatively Free, Painters Become Like Women; Their Thoughts Can Revolve Around The Minor Facts Of Life And Penetrate Their Hidden Meaning.

The Pleasures Of Love Proceed Successively From A Distich To A Quatrain, From A Quatrain To A Sonnet, From A Sonnet To A Ballad, From A Ballad To An Ode, From An Ode To A Cantata, And From A Cantata To A Dithyramb. A Husband Who Begins With The Dithyramb Is A Fool.

A Country Is Strong Which Consists Of Wealthy Families, Every Member Of Whom Is Interested In Defending A Common Treasure; It Is Weak When Composed Of Scattered Individuals, To Whom It Matters Little Whether They Obey Seven Or One, A Russian Or A Corsican, So Long As Each Keeps His Own Plot Of Land, Blind In Their Wretched Egotism, To The Fact That The Day Is Coming When This Too Will Be Torn From Them.