Quote

Your women of fashion ceases to be a woman. She is neither mother, nor wife, nor lover. She is, medically speaking, sex on the brain.

Honore de Balzac

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Honore de Balzac
Age: 52 †
Born: 1799
Born: May 20
Died: 1851
Died: August 19
Art Critic
Dramaturge
Essayist
Journalist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Prosaist
Writer
Tours
France
Balzac
Horace de Saint- Aubin
Onoreh deh Balzaḳ
Lord R'Hoone
Ônôrē de Balzaq
Jeune ceélibataire
Onore de Balzak
Honorato De Balzac
H. Balzak
Honoreé De Balzac
H. Balzac
Horace de S.- Aubin
Honoriusz Balzac
Un Jeune ceélibataire
Lord O'Rhoone
Ūnūrīh dī Balzāk
R'Hoone
Onore de Bal'zak
Hônôrê đơ Banzăc
Honore de Balzak
de. Balzac
Brain
Lover
Woman
Cease
Mother
Speaking
Women
Lovers
Neither
Sex
Fashion
Medically
Wife
Ceases

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Like hunger, physical love is a necessity. But man's appetite for amour is never so regular or so sustained as his appetite for the delights of the table.
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Conventions are often more cruel than the law.
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All happiness depends on courage and work. I have had many periods of wretchedness, but with energy and above all with illusions, I pulled through them all.
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Equality may be a right, but no power on earth can convert it into fact.
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Only when one has learned to acknowledge that wiser minds have made better words to come out of our mouths may we truly, then, begin to speak them.
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Le bonheur engloutit nos forces, comme le malheur e teint nos vertus. Happiness engulfs our strength, just as misfortune extinguishes our virtues.
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We are never either so wretched or so happy as we say we are.
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Paris, like every pretty woman, is subject to inexplicable whims of beauty and ugliness.
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No woman allows her lover to descend from his pedestal. Even a god is not forgiven the slightest pettiness.
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A Creole woman is like a child, she wants to possess everything immediately like a child, she would set fire to a house in order to fry an egg. In her languor, she thinks of nothing when passionately aroused, she thinks of any act possible or impossible.
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Solitude is fine, but you need someone to tell you that solitude is fine.
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Our most bitter enemies are our own kith and kin. Kings have no brothers, no sons, no mother!
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Love is perhaps no more than gratitude for pleasure.
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In the medical profession a horse and carriage are more necessary than any scientific knowledge.
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As a rule, only the poor are generous.
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Love is a game in which one always cheats.
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Vulgar souls look hastily and superficially at the sea and accuse it of monotony other more privileged beings could spend a lifetime admiring it and discovering new and changing phenomena that delight them. So it is with love.
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Bankers are lynxes. To expect any gratitude from them is equivalent to attempting to move the wolves of the Ukraine to pity in the middle of winter.
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Admiration bestowed upon any one but ourselves is always tedious.
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