Women Love Only Those Whom They Do

Russian Ladies, For The Most Part, Cherish Only Platonic Love, Without Mingling Any Thought Of Matrimony With It; And Platonic Love Is Exceedingly Embarrassing.

The History Of A Man's Soul, Even The Pettiest Soul, Is Hardly Less Interesting And Useful Than The History Of A Whole People; Especially When The Former Is The Result Of The Observations Of A Mature Mind Upon Itself, And Has Been Written Without Any Egotistical Desire Of Arousing Sympathy Or Astonishment. Rousseau's Confessions Has Precisely This Defect – He Read It To His Friends.

I Was Modest--they Accused Me Of Being Crafty: I Became Secretive. I Felt Deeply Good And Evil--nobody Caressed Me, Everybody Offended Me: I Became Rancorous. I Was Gloomy--other Children Were Merry And Talkative. I Felt Myself Superior To Them--but Was Considered Inferior: I Became Envious. I Was Ready To Love The Whole World--none Understood Me: And I Learned To Hate.

You Men Do Not Understand The Delights Of A Glance, Of A Pressure Of The Hand... But As For Me, I Swear To You That, When I Listen To Your Voice, I Feel Such A Deep, Strange Bliss That The Most Passionate Kisses Could Not Take Its Place.

Happy People Are Ignoramuses And Glory Is Nothing Else But Success, And To Achieve It One Only Has To Be Cunning.