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O Heart! Love Is Thy Bane And Thy Antidote.

It Is Sad, No Doubt, To Exhaust One's Strength And One's Days In Cleaving The Bosom Of This Jealous Earth, Which Compels Us To Wring From It The Treasures Of Its Fertility, When A Bit Of The Blackest And Coarsest Bread Is, At The End Of The Day's Work, The Sole Recompense And The Sole Profit Attaching To So Arduous A Toil.

Weeds Are Omnipresent; Errors Are To Be Found In The Heart Of The Most Lovable.

If They Are Ignorant, They Are Despised, If Learned, Mocked. In Love They Are Reduced To The Status Of Courtesans. As Wives They Are Treated More As Servants Than As Companions. Men Do Not Love Them: They Make Use Of Them, They Exploit Them, And Expect, In That Way, To Make Them Subject To The Law Of Fidelity.

Genius, Whether Locked Up In A Cell Or Roaming At Large, Is Always Solitary.