The Love Of Nature Is

A Sacrament By Virtue Of Which Each Imparts Nothing But Vexations To The Other.

Thought Is The Only Treasure That God Sets Outside All Power And Keeps To Serve As A Secret Link Among The Unhappy.

An Unfulfilled Vocation Drains The Color From A Man's Entire Existence.

A Penniless Man Who Has No Ties To Bind Him Is Master Of Himself At Any Rate, But A Luckless Wretch Who Is In Love No Longer Belongs To Himself, And May Not Take His Own Life. Love Makes Us Almost Sacred In Our Own Eyes; It Is The Life Of Another That We Revere Within Us; Then And So Begins For Us The Cruelest Trouble Of All.

Your Women Of Fashion Ceases To Be A Woman. She Is Neither Mother, Nor Wife, Nor Lover. She Is, Medically Speaking, Sex On The Brain.