The ordinary procedure of the nineteenth century is that when a powerful and noble personage encounters a man of feeling, he kills, exiles, imprisons or so humiliates him that the other, like a fool, dies of grief.

Faith, I am no such fool; everyone for himself in this desert of selfishness which is called life.

Life is too short, and the time we waste in yawning never can be regained.

Any man who talks about his love affairs thereby proves he is ignorant of love and is moved only by vanity.