Wit Is The Epitaph Of An Emotion.

Love As A Passion—it Is Our European Specialty—must Absolutely Be Of Noble Origin; As Is Well Known, Its Invention Is Due To The Provencal Poet-cavaliers, Those Brilliant, Ingenious Men Of The "gai Saber," To Whom Europe Owes So Much, And Almost Owes Itself.

When One Does Away With Oneself One Does The Most Estimable Thing Possible: One Thereby Almost Deserves To Live.

Has A Woman Who Knew She Was Well-dressed Ever Caught A Cold?

Evolution Does Not Make Happiness Its Goal; It Aims Simply At Evolution And Nothing Else.

It Is The Stillest Words That Bring The Storm.