Women who are predestined to love, themselves struggle a long time against that grace of love which is more terrible than the thunderbolt that fell on the road to Damascus.

A woman oftenest yields to the passion of love only when age or solitude does not frighten her.

Passion is an arid and burning desert.

Passion is profane asceticism, as harsh as religious asceticism.

Great woman lovers are as rare as great penitent women.