There is a certain kind of stupidity reserved for women's dealings with men.
He was stabbed by memory, that tyrant which impinges upon our dreams and leaps at out throat as soon as we awaken.
We make our own symbols, after the event has passed and begun to spoil.
What we love we may also despise.
A Strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sorrow. The idea of sorrow has always appealed to me but now I am almost ashamed of its complete egoism. I have known boredom, regret, and occasionally remorse, but never sorrow. Today it envelops me like a silken web, enervating and soft, and sets me apart from everybody else.
Nothing becomes some women more than the prick of ambition. Love, on the contrary, may make them very dull.
Curiosity is the beginning of wisdom.
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