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.
Surely, if our evil passions must find vent, it is far better to expend them on strangers and aliens, than in the bosom of the community in which we dwell.
Some day sooner or later our passion would have cooled—inevitably—it’s the way with everything human.
Passion is passion. It’s the excitement between the tedious spaces, and it doesn’t matter where it’s directed.
Passion is always a mystery and unaccountable, and unfortunately there is no doubt that life does not spare its purest children and often it is just the most deserving people who cannot help loving those that destroy them.
Our passions are, in truth, like the phoenix. When the old one burns away, the new one rises out of its ashes at once.
Our passions are the principal instruments of our preservation. It is therefore, an enterprise as vain as it is ridiculous to want to destroy them.[Nos passions sont les principaux instruments de notre conservation : c’est donc une entreprise aussi vaine que ridicule de vouloir les détruire.]