The Habits Of Life Form The Soul,

Hope Is A Memory That Desires, The Memory Is A Memory That Has Enjoyed.

Conscience Is Our Unerring Judge Until We Finally Stifle It.

Vulgar Souls Look Hastily And Superficially At The Sea And Accuse It Of Monotony; Other More Privileged Beings Could Spend A Lifetime Admiring It And Discovering New And Changing Phenomena That Delight Them. So It Is With Love.

The Fact Is That Love Is Of Two Kinds, One Which Commands, And One Which Obeys. The Two Are Quite Distinct, And The Passion To Which The One Gives Rise Is Not The Passion Of The Other.

In Paris, The Greatest Expression Of Personal Satisfaction Known To Man Is The Smirk On The Face Of A Male, Highly Pleased With Himself As He Leaves The Boudoir Of A Lady.