Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything, even our gigantic intellects.
When one is in love one begins by deceiving oneself. And one ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.
Twenty years of romance make a woman look like a ruin; but twenty years of marriage make her something like a public building.
There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life’s sores the better.
The world is simply divided into two classes – those who believe the incredible, like the public – and those who do the improbable.