In The First Woman We Love, We

Love Is Not Only A Feeling, It Is Also An Art. A Simple Word, A Sensitive Precaution, A Mere Nothing Reveal To A Woman The Sublime Artist Who Can Touch Her Heart Without Withering It.

When An Intelligent Man Reaches The Point Of Inviting Self-explanation And Offers Surrendering The Key To His Heart, He Is Assuredly Riding A Drunken Horse.

One Hour Of Love Has A Whole Life In It.

What Moralists Describe As The Mysteries Of The Human Heart Are Solely The Deceiving Thoughts, The Spontaneous Impulses Of Self-regard. The Sudden Changes In Character, About Which So Much Has Been Said, Are Instinctive Calculations For The Furtherance Of Our Own Pleasures. Seeing Himself Now In His Fine Clothes, His New Gloves And Shoes, Eugène De Rastignac Forgot His Noble Resolve. Youth, When It Swerves Toward Wrong, Dares Not Look In The Mirror Of Conscience; Maturity Has Already Seen Itself There. That Is The Whole Difference Between The Two Phases Of Life.

We Are Never Either So Wretched Or So Happy As We Say We Are.