Men are wise in proportion, not to their experience, but to their capacity for experience.
Men are not gentle creatures who want to be loved, and who at the most can defend themselves if they are attacked; they are, on the contrary, creatures among whose instinctual endowments is to be reckoned a powerful share of aggressiveness.
Men are never really willing to die except for the sake of freedom: therefore they do not believe in dying completely.
Men are never convinced of your reasons, of your sincerity, of the seriousness of your sufferings, except by your death.
Men are men, vows are words, and words are wind.
Men are like chestnuts they sell in the street: they’re all hot and they all smell good when you buy them, but when you take them out of the paper cone you realise that most of them are rotten inside.
Men are by nature merely indifferent to one another; but women are by nature enemies.
Men are born equal but they are also born different.
Men are April when they woo, December when they wed; maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives.
Men always want to be a woman’s first love. That is their clumsy vanity. We women have a more subtle instinct about things. What we like is to be a man’s last romance.
Men always desire their own good, but do not always discern it.[On veut toujours son bien, mais on ne le voit pas toujours.]
Men all have the devil in them.
