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Danh ngôn của Honore de Balzac (Sứ mệnh: 3)

The majority of husbands remind me of an orangutan trying to play the violin.
Power is not revealed by striking hard or often, but by striking true.
All humanity is passion; without passion, religion, history, novels, art would be ineffectual.
Marriage must incessantly contend with a monster that devours everything: familiarity.
No man should marry until he has studied anatomy and dissected at least one woman.
A woman knows the face of the man she loves as a sailor knows the open sea.
When women love us, they forgive us everything, even our crimes; when they do not love us, they give us credit for nothing, not even our virtues.
Nobody loves a woman because she is handsome or ugly, stupid or intelligent. We love because we love.
The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness.
I do not regard a broker as a member of the human race.
Equality may perhaps be a right, but no power on earth can ever turn it into a fact.
We exaggerate misfortune and happiness alike. We are never as bad off or as happy as we say we are.
Nothing so fortifies a friendship as a belief on the part of one friend that he is superior to the other.
Finance, like time, devours its own children.
A mother who is really a mother is never free.
If we could but paint with the hand what we see with the eye.
One should believe in marriage as in the immortality of the soul.
Passion is universal humanity. Without it religion, history, romance and art would be useless.
Behind every great fortune lies a great crime.
The more one judges, the less one loves.
Love is the poetry of the senses.
There is no such thing as a great talent without great will power.
The motto of chivalry is also the motto of wisdom; to serve all, but love only one.
Laws are spider webs through which the big flies pass and the little ones get caught.
A good husband is never the first to go to sleep at night or the last to awake in the morning.
A mother's happiness is like a beacon, lighting up the future but reflected also on the past in the guise of fond memories.
There are some women whose pregnancy would make some sly bachelor smile.
Power is action; the electoral principle is discussion. No political action is possible when discussion is permanently established.
The man as he converses is the lover; silent, he is the husband.
Political liberty, the peace of a nation, and science itself are gifts for which Fate demands a heavy tax in blood!
Suicide, moreover, was at the time in vogue in Paris: what more suitable key to the mystery of life for a skeptical society?
A young bride is like a plucked flower; but a guilty wife is like a flower that had been walked over.
Wisdom is that apprehension of heavenly things to which the spirit rises through love.
It is only in the act of nursing that a woman realizes her motherhood in visible and tangible fashion; it is a joy of every moment.
Clouds symbolize the veils that shroud God.
The most virtuous women have something within them, something that is never chaste.
Small natures require despotism to exercise their sinews, as great souls thirst for equality to give play to their heart.
Women are tenacious, and all of them should be tenacious of respect; without esteem they cannot exist; esteem is the first demand that they make of love.
For passion, be it observed, brings insight with it; it can give a sort of intelligence to simpletons, fools, and idiots, especially during youth.
Men die in despair, while spirits die in ecstasy.
The smallest flower is a thought, a life answering to some feature of the Great Whole, of whom they have a persistent intuition.
The fact is that love is of two kinds, one which commands, and one which obeys. The two are quite distinct, and the passion to which the one gives rise is not the passion of the other.
True love is eternal, infinite, and always like itself. It is equal and pure, without violent demonstrations: it is seen with white hairs and is always young in the heart.
The art of motherhood involves much silent, unobtrusive self-denial, an hourly devotion which finds no detail too minute.