“Men die in despair, while spirits die in ecstasy.”

I can no longer think of anything but you. In spite of myself, my imagination carries me to you. I grasp you, I kiss you, I caress you, a thousand of the most amorous caresses take possession of me.

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.

No man has ever yet discovered the way to give friendly advice to any woman, not even to his own wife.

Nobody loves a woman because she is handsome or ugly, stupid or intelligent. We love because we love.

Talent is a flame, but genius is a fire.

Noble passions are like vices: the more they are satisfied, the greater they grow, Mothers and gamblers are insatiable.

Cruelty and fear shake hands together.

The first thing necessary to win the heart of a woman is opportunity.

Love is perhaps no more than gratitude for pleasure.

A woman must be a genius to create a good husband.

A mother who is really a mother is never free.

The press is like a woman: sublime when it lies, it will not let go until it has forced you to believe it. The public, like a foolish husband, always succumbs.

It is quite right what they say: the three most beautiful sights in the world are a ship in full sail, a galloping horse, and a woman dancing.

The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness.

Like hunger, physical love is a necessity. But man’s appetite for amour is never so regular or so sustained as his appetite for the delights of the table.

A naked woman is less dangerous than one who spreads her skirt skillfully to cover and exhibit everything at once.

Stuff your eyes with wonder, live as if you’d drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It’s more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories.

An epic era has drawn curtains, never to happen again.

You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour.

Love’s very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.

Fear does not prevent death. It prevents life.

I crumble into a ball, with the chest pain exploding my soul, the memories and madness is killing me, will you help me?

I want to scream and cry until my lungs dry out the air that I breathe, maybe my death would be beneficial to them.

I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.