Maxioms by Honore De Balzac
A mother who is really a mother is never free.
A mother who is really a mother is never free.
Love is the poetry of the senses.
Love is the poetry of the senses.
To kill a relative of whom you are tired is something. But to inherit his property afterwards, that is genuine read more
To kill a relative of whom you are tired is something. But to inherit his property afterwards, that is genuine pleasure.
We exaggerate misfortune and happiness alike. We are never as bad off or as happy as we say we are.
We exaggerate misfortune and happiness alike. We are never as bad off or as happy as we say we are.
Does anyone know where these gondolas of Paris come from?
[Fr., Ne sait on pas ou viennent ces gondoles read more
Does anyone know where these gondolas of Paris come from?
[Fr., Ne sait on pas ou viennent ces gondoles Parisiennes?]
