Talent Is A Flame, But

The Smallest Flower Is A Thought, A Life Answering To Some Feature Of The Great Whole, Of Whom They Have A Persistent Intuition.

Hatred Is The Vice Of Narrow Souls; They Feed It With All Their Littleness, And Make It The Pretext Of Base Tyrannies.

A Lui La Foi, A' Elle Le Doute, A' Elle Le Fardeau Le Plus Lourd: La Femme Ne Souffre-t-elle Pas Toujours Pour Deux? For Him, Faith; For Her, Doubt And For Her Theheavier Load: Does Not The Woman Always Suffer For Both?

A Great Writer Is Nothing Less Than A Martyr Who Does Not Die.

In Paris, The Greatest Expression Of Personal Satisfaction Known To Man Is The Smirk On The Face Of A Male, Highly Pleased With Himself As He Leaves The Boudoir Of A Lady.