The problem with marriage is that it ends every night after making love, and it must be rebuilt every morning before breakfast.
For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace.
Women who don’t marry wither up — they wither up like aspidistras in back-parlour windows; and the devilish thing is that they don’t even know that they’re withering.
When two people are under the influence of the most violent, most insane, most delusive, and most transient of passions, they are required to swear that they will remain in that excited, abnormal, and exhausting condition continuously until death do them part.
What made marriage so difficult back then was yet again that instigator of so many other sorts of heartbreak: the oversize brain.
Twenty years of romance make a woman look like a ruin; but twenty years of marriage make her something like a public building.
Those who talk most about the blessings of marriage and the constancy of its vows are the very people who declare that if the chain were broken and the prisoners left free to choose, the whole social fabric would fly asunder. You cannot have the argument both ways. If the prisoner is happy, why lock him in? If he is not, why pretend that he is?