What is death, after all? We leave only mortals behind us.
Wit is a dangerous talent in friendship.
We should lay in a store of food, but never of pleasures; these should be gathered day by day.
Old age is women’s hell.
The loss of friends is a tax on age!
There are no perfect women in the world; only hypocrites exhibit no defects.
Feminine virtue is nothing but a convenient masculine invention.
If God had to give a woman wrinkles, He might at least have put them on the soles of her feet.
Words really flattering are not those which we prepare but those which escape us unthinkingly.
Equality is the share of every one at their advent upon earth, and equality is also theirs when placed beneath it.
Fair is not fair, but that which pleaseth.
The more sins you confess, the more books you will sell.
A cunning woman is her own mistress because she confides in no one. She who deceives others anticipates deceit, and guards herself.
The secret known to two is no longer a secret.
Ennui, the parent of expensive and ruinous vices.
Gentleness! more powerful than Hercules.
Hatred is nearly always honest – rarely, if ever, assumed. So much cannot be said for love.
Indiscretion and wickedness, be it known, are first cousins.
Memory is ever active, ever true. Alas, if it were only as easy to forget!
Oaths are the counterfeit money with which we pay the sacrifice of love.
Today a new sun rises for me; everything lives, everything is animated, everything seems to speak to me of my passion, everything invites me to cherish it.