In the School of Love, a man is forever just taking up a brand new "study" and discovering that all the old loves were nothing but "preparatory practice."
The eugenic idea of choosing a husband would be perfectly lovely, only that a husband isn't a matter of choice, but of chance, accident or blind luck.
Love is woman's eternal spring, man's eternal fall.
It isn't beauty, and it isn't cleverness, and it isn't clothes that make a particular woman fascinating. It is just a sort of magnetic current which seems to run around her and set her eyes a-twinkling—and a man's heart tingling.
It is utterly useless to tell a man the honest truth. That is the last thing on earth which a man ever tells a woman—so of course it's the last thing on earth which he ever expects to hear from her.
The average man, like "all Gaul," is divided into three parts: his vanity, his digestion and his ambition. Cater to the first, guard the second and stimulate the third—and his love will take care of itself.
There is no such tonic for a man's nerve as a capricious wife and no such softener for his backbone as a self-sacrificing one.
A man can sit in the moonlight and talk "New Thought" to a pretty girl and at the same time look right into her eyes with all the old, old ones.
Bohemia is an oasis in the desert of life where only the rich-in-dreams may go and only the poor-in-purse may stay.
There is no way of two people really knowing each other until after they are married and have to share the same dollar, the same table, the same newspaper and the same chiffonier.