Le Bonheur Engloutit Nos Forces, Comme Le

You Cannot Pluck Love Out Of Your Heart As You Would Pull A Tooth.

Carelessness In Dressing Is Moral Suicide.

There Are Houses In Certain Provincial Towns Whose Aspect Inspires Melancholy, Akin To That Called Forth By Sombre Cloisters, Dreary Moorlands, Or The Desolation Of Ruins. Within These Houses There Is, Perhaps, The Silence Of The Cloister, The Barrenness Of Moors, The Skeleton Of Ruins; Life And Movement Are So Stagnant There That A Stranger Might Think Them Uninhabited, Were It Not That He Encounters Suddenly The Pale, Cold Glance Of A Motionless Person, Whose Half-monastic Face Peers Beyond The Window-casing At The Sound Of An Unaccustomed Step.

Vice Is Perhaps A Desire To Learn Everything.

Squeeze Marriage As Much As You Like, You Will Never Extract Anything From It But Fun For Bachelors And Boredom For Husbands.