All that was illogical in our social
code
Ambiguity has no place, nor has
compromise
But if this is our supreme farewell,
do not tell me so!
Chain so light yesterday, so heavy
to-day
Every man is his own master in his
choice of liaisons
If I do not give all I give nothing
Indulgence of which they stand in need
themselves
Life goes on, and that is less gay than
the stories
Men admired her; the women sought some
point to criticise
Only a man, wavering and changeable
Ostensibly you sit at the feast without
paying the cost
Paris has become like a little country
town in its gossip
The night brings counsel
Their Christian charity did not extend
so far as that
There are mountains that we never climb
but once
You are in a conquered country, which
is still more dangerous
THE CHILD OF A CENTURY, By Alfred de Musset
A terrible danger lurks in the
knowledge of what is possible
Accustomed to call its disguise virtue
Adieu, my son, I love you and I die
All philosophy is akin to atheism
All that is not life, it is the noise
of life
And when love is sure of itself and
knows response
Because you weep, you fondly imagine
yourself innocent
Become corrupt, and you will cease to
suffer
Began to forget my own sorrow in my
sympathy for her
Beware of disgust, it is an incurable
evil
Can any one prevent a gossip
Cold silence, that negative force
Contrive to use proud disdain as a
shield
Death is more to be desired than a
living distaste for life
Despair of a man sick of life, or the
whim of a spoiled child
Do they think they have invented what
they see
Each one knows what the other is about
to say
Fool who destroys his own happiness
Force itself, that mistress of the
world
Funeral processions are no longer
permitted
Galileo struck the earth, crying:
"Nevertheless it moves!"
Good and bad days succeeded each other
almost regularly
Great sorrows neither accuse nor
blaspheme—they listen
Grief itself was for her but a means of
seducing
Happiness of being pursued
He who is loved by a beautiful woman is
sheltered from every blow
He lives only in the body
How much they desire to be loved who
say they love no more
Human weakness seeks association
I can not be near you and separated
from you at the same moment
I can not love her, I can not love
another
I boasted of being worse than I really
was
I neither love nor esteem sadness
I do not intend either to boast or
abase myself
Ignorance into which the Greek clergy
plunged the laity
In what do you believe?
Indignation can solace grief and
restore happiness
Is he a dwarf or a giant
Is it not enough to have lived?
It is a pity that you must seek
pastimes
Make a shroud of your virtue in which
to bury your crimes
Man who suffers wishes to make her whom
he loves suffer
Men doubted everything: the young men
denied everything
No longer esteemed her highly enough to
be jealous of her
Of all the sisters of love, the most
beautiful is pity
Perfection does not exist
Pure caprice that I myself mistook for
a flash of reason
Quarrel had been, so to speak, less sad
than our reconciliation
Reading the Memoirs of Constant
Resorted to exaggeration in order to
appear original
Sceptic regrets the faith he has lost
the power to regain
Seven who are always the same: the
first is called hope
She pretended to hope for the best
Sometimes we seem to enjoy unhappiness
"Speak to me of your love," she said,
"not of your grief"
St. Augustine
Suffered, and yet took pleasure in it
Suspicions that are ever born anew
Terrible words; I deserve them, but
they will kill me
There are two different men in you
Ticking of which (our arteries) can be
heard only at night
"Unhappy man!" she cried, "you will
never know how to love"
We have had a mass celebrated, and it
cost us a large sum
What you take for love is nothing more
than desire
What human word will ever express thy
slightest caress
When passion sways man, reason follows
him weeping and warning
Who has told you that tears can wash
away the stains of guilt
Wine suffuses the face as if to prevent
shame appearing there
You believe in what is said here below
and not in what is done
You play with happiness as a child
plays with a rattle
You turn the leaves of dead books
Your great weapon is silence
Youth is to judge of the world from
first impressions