Oh the innocent girl in her maiden teens knows perfectly well what everything means.

For man, as for flower and beast and bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly, most perfectly alive.

The cruelest thing a man can do to a woman is to portray her as perfection.

Oh literature, oh the glorious Art, how it preys upon the marrow in our bones. It scoops the stuffing out of us, and chucks us aside. Alas!

If a woman hasn't got a tiny streak of harlot in her, she's a dry stick as a rule.

Reason is a supple nymph, and slippery as a fish by nature. She had as leave give her kiss to an absurdity any day, as to syllogistic truth. The absurdity may turn out truer.