Love Which Economizes Is Never True Love.

The Union Of A Want And A Sentiment.

The Secret Of The Nobility And Beauty Of Great Ladies Lies In The Art With Which They Can Shed Their Veils. In Such Situations, They Become Like Ancient Statues. If They Kept The Merest Scarf On, They Would Be Lewd. Your Bourgeois Woman Will Always Try To Cover Her Nakedness.

Hatred Like Love Feeds On The Merest Trifles. Everything Adds To It. Just As The Being We Love Can Do No Wrong, So The One We Hate Can Do No Right.

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.

There Are No Little Events With The Heart. It Magnifies Everything; It Places In The Same Scales The Fall Of An Empire Of Fourteen Years And The Dropping Of A Woman's Glove, And Almost Always The Glove Weighs More Than The Empire.